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“I couldn’t push my street-parked old sedan
through the snow plow’s nine inch wall of ice,
so I trudged downstairs, scaring basement mice,
and climbed into my brand new mini van
with four wheel drive, keyless entry and
a thermometer and an electric compass,
which I call my Global Positioning Device.
I started up, eased on the gas, and rammed
the right side frame of my garage’s door,
shearing off my power side view mirror
(two hundred dollars plus an hour’s labor).
Then I backed up and crumpled my rear hatch
just enough so that it will not latch.
(Six hundred more). I walked to the liquor store.”
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The dollar’s sinking. By June, I won’t be able
to afford to pay for a flight to Italy.
But when I trace my thumb across my globe
from Italy to North America,
I discover that the latitude of Rome’s
about the same as Detroit’s and Chicago’s,
which means that Italy is as deprived
of sun as Indiana in December.
But sitting here, trapped in the USA,
October drizzle streaking filthy windows,
my thumb still gritty from its recent passage
from east to west, like Christopher Columbus,
across my dusty globe’s blue-white Atlantic,
I’m desperate to delude myself with hope.
My money’s losing value every minute,
so shouldn’t I lock in this bargain airfare
before Northwest withdraws it or goes bankrupt?
Three hundred dollars round trip to Milan!
I’ll slosh through soggy Venice soaking up
Chianti, Prosecco, and the Renaissance,
then board a south bound Euro Star and ride
until the sun breaks through the overcast,
or else the train runs out of land to cross.
In that case I’ll climb down in Brindisi
and wheel my suitcase to the ferry dock
and buy low-season deck-class to Corfu,
where, I’ve heard, it rains throughout November.
So I’ll sail south to Ithaca, then Crete—
so close to Africa it must be sunny.
But, oh, the food’s so bad there! Olive oil
soaks everything and there’s just instant coffee
and Melba toast in plastic wrap for breakfast.
Please sail me back to gloomy Italy,
to Rome and wine and pasta—and high ceilings
that chill all rooms to fifty five degrees.
Fly me home, I cry out, in my dream.
Voila! I’m back, again, in Indiana,
warm, well-fed, not poor, still miserable.
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