Poem: May 19th, Venice

The ocean is still covered with algal blooms

Causing blue to clash with crimson microorganisms.

Like someone took the gels from a million 3D glasses

And laid them on top of each other in the water.

A toxic concoction if ever the was one.

Venice smells of raw potatoes, vaguely

Like a weird olfactory popup shop on Abbot Kinney,

Or perhaps it was the new mask I was trying out.

Verdict: good for autumn, suffocating in July.

Then again, the mid-weight layer offers more protection,

And protection is the prophylactic on everyone's mind.

I have vampire skin from indoor confinement

And  SPF slathering.

This feeling is unnerving, having muffled conversations

With the bodega owner, who wants so much to shake my hand

Like always, but knows he can't

And breaks the six foot rule to pat my shoulder blade instead.

I buy a rosé, head outside, walk back to my place

And think there is a special place in hell for runners

Who don't wear masks and refuse to give you

The wide berth you deserve when they huff and puff past.

With everything going on, the last thing

Anyone needs is a sweaty asshole's aerosol.