Lounging in the improbable city

I’ve been walking for hours through the sestiere of Dorsoduro
discovering narrow shadow lanes
and climbing the stairs of uncountable bridges
and stumbling across uncountable, cobble-paved campi
where uncountable churches with lopsided red brick campanile
were waiting for redeemable souls
like as many forlorn De Chirico cityscapes

now seagulls hoot, wavelets slosh and lap the pier,
outboard motors utter
muffled under-water roars
as municipal garbage boats and vaporetti
and small Riva runabouts chuggle
in random criss-cross patterns
over the Guidecca Canal

sitting under my parasol I’m briefly considering
the third Aperol Spritz of this afternoon
but feel too lazy to call out
for the ragazzaccio with the designer stubble
and the elaborate hairdo
who’s standing in the halfshade of the bar entrance
flexing his muscles and pouting in a manly, handsome way

the sun pours drowsily over the white marble facade
of San Giorgio Maggiore to my right
and the white marble facade of the
Chiesa del Santissimo Redentore to my left,
the name of which is a poem all by itself,
and I’m thinking I could do with a bit of redemption, too,
but rather may go for another Spritz instead

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Lounging in the improbable city