Marco Polo

In Venice, once, I made the
mistake of asking an old man
in a red bow tie behind
the counter for a large coffee
to go. I was obviously an American,
a rube, or as he put it, stupido
americano, or something to
that effect. How would I know.
I just thought that having a grande
cup of coffee to stroll the streets
with, and glide along the septic
waters in a gondola would be nice.
Enjoyable. He poured my coffee,
equaling three sips, into a dentist's
spit cup and off I went as they laughed
and laughed and laughed behind me.
I walked until my new friend,
Francesca, pointed out to me
Marco Polo's window, the great explorer,
a very big whoop. Then it was time
to stand there with my arms out,
holding my little cup of coffee,
and allow a hundred pigeons
to land on me in St. Mark's Square
while someone took my picture.