Like Bats by Robert Beveridge

You have a vision
of fruit jets, tell me
about grape fighters
over Lebanon, kiwis
on carriers and
supersonic apricots.
I ask you if you
remember Venice
the breeze that made
a walk indistinguishable
from a thunderstorm.
We spent our days under
awnings, in stores
that wrapped our meager
purchases in plastic.
It didn’t matter. Books,
cutlets, jewelry all
waterlogged when we
arrived back at our pension.

Still, it was exercise. Neither
of us could read Italian,
anyway, and we cook
for vegetarians. Hurry,
our banana awaits,
gondolier’s foot a-tap-tap-
tap on the cobblestones.