As we sat in Central Park
you turned my head to see
what I’d already heard.
It was the mauvais gondolier
and his baritone rang
through the trees from across
the pond. Melancholy, yes.
Even manful—but oh,
there was no life in the man!
Touch me again so I forget
the terrible gondolier
on this rock, throw my arms
round your neck as Italian trumpets,
airplanes buzz in my ears and I can’t
hear his poignant return.
The mauvais gondolier wears
a red and white striped shirt
and a flopping black bow
on his yellow straw hat.
But the world I lived in was
dreaming you gathered my hair
in your hands. We were happy, afloat
on the water. Your kiss was loud,
but only I heard it. Everyone else
go home! the bees buzzed, and
the obese rowers and children
in life vests blinked when you
saw your own face in my eyes,
the hive beautiful or in love
as it moves to feed.
I miss their presence now
they’ve kissed and left and a
drug dealer stands in the sheer, moist
arbor. Come join us, you called
with my head on your chest,
your hand lightly grazing my cheek.
A cardinal in the bay leaves
that looked like bamboo
was gone when I turned but
the gondolier sang on, just to say
he was numb to the pain of it all.
Your hands reach my waist, I
remember this place as rowboats
float over green water
and never a gondolier’s sigh.
