The Artist in Venice

The old man told me
one morning over coffee,
while sitting in the plaza
where the pigeons
nervously awaited
the tourists to bring
them crumbs, pieces of bread,
biscotti, he told me
that he didn't like
going out among them anymore,
he wanted to stay in and paint,
that's all that mattered now.
who, I asked. All of them
he said, and made a broad
stroke of his hand across
a growing mob of tourists.
I dislike them, the people,
they are mean and selfish,
rude, they over eat, they want
what they can't have
and are never satisfied
with life, with their
children, their wives,
the places they live, their
jobs. But maybe they will
change, I offered quietly,
edging up on my chair. He
laughed, amused with me,
my childlike optimism.
The sun finally emerged over
the top of the church
and lit up the narrow
waterways where the gondolas
had already begun to ply
their trade with first fares.
No, he said, the world
is corrupt, even religion
can't stop it, it's the nature
of our souls, we can't help
ourselves from being who
we are. It's a struggle
to surrender and find your
way without doing harm,
or being a nuisance. I'm tired
of people, he said, tired.
He made a motion of wiping
his hands that were still
flecked with paint, reds, golds,
then sipped his coffee,
letting the steam rise into
his gentle blue eyes. He
didn't want my approval, he
didn't look into my eyes
for agreement or even
understanding, he just nodded,
knowing through an earned
life of years and art,that
how he felt was sad, and true.