Love (poem #4)

I went for a walk,
the focus that comes from moving eyes
away from the still-life on the kitchen table—
pears, oranges, bananas, and apples—
these images, the myth of Italy.

I was walking by the Arno.
This is how I know the word sporco.
A man behind me on a bicycle:
a hand on my behind: a squeeze.
I gasp, try to think of what to shout,
but I can’t decide which language to speak in.

I rode on the bus.
All I could think about was my backpack:
I was wearing it on my back; what a terrible idea.
In Italy, the bus doors can grow arms
and unzip zippers.

I was riding to the train station,
a direct bus- a man shoved his way on.
I was being pushed too rhythmically-
with the wrong body parts.
Sporco.

And they ask: have you found an Italian lover?
I have gotten approximately ten marriage proposals.
“I see you walking everyday.”
Hunched over, perhaps unfriendly.
A man on the bus invited me over
A Sunday morning, Church service?