I could pretend to be
someone else for a while,
a staircase in Venice
or a swingset in the park.
Still, still, beneath the going,
the flowing through the air
and come back again.
Or I could be a racing car
idling at the side of an ordinary
road, afraid to rev and run,
fear I might not get there
wherever racers go. Afraid
to say any more. Pretending
is worse than advertising,
crueler than credit cards.
I can’t even pretend anymore
though the steps of Santa Maria
are very white and very clean.

25 October 2022