Mystery of the Gondolas

Pour out the air, juvenile child- labor

it is the time  for the bridges of sighs and the bawls of the Gondolas of Venice

the time of nude culture has gone past us and while you, juvenile- labor

the tourist eats your bread, feeds the rest to the pigeons.

It doesn't just happen here in Venice, this is universal

how money turns into bread, into puffy hot loaves that are consumed by travelers

while you crush your hands on the boat's handles and pedal door to door for the swallow's milk

impossible possibilities on the wooden planks of the Gondolas

this is the world through a glass, recycled for you: other's leisure

You watch, simple. What you know floats down and sighs, the bridge is proud of its name

even your language feeds on water, my child. Water fills empty stomachs but leaves room

for the later hunger at midnight, Europe time.   The sun is closing its eyes, this is your last mystery guests for the day brown-eyed you'll forget in the morning

What can you do for the mystery of tomorrow's bread but imagine Venice, the night

you, a sole loner on the Gondolas that sail the same waters to a corner mattress named home.

image found on Google.