The Fondamenta del Remedio
Bakes in the hot July sun.
Tourists pass by
The cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore,
Grateful to have had the chance
To experience Venice, just this once.

The Hotel Ca' Dei Conti
Sits on a Venetian canal.
Flowers hang from the terraces,
And the spacious rooms are well appointed.
Ours is a life of privilege,
Well-earned,
But privileged, nonetheless.

She sits on the walk of stone,
In a corner
Where none will stray.
The clothes are heavy
In the oppressive heat,
Layers of brown and black,
That depict the hues of her life.

She is bowed low to the earth,
In submission, I suppose,
And a guttural moan rises slowly
From her lips.
It is the sound of a condemmed soul.

The plate makes the request,
For coins to sustain her breath.
No frills, of course,
For a beggar only dreams
Of food on the table.

I gently place the coin,
Because my heart will not let me pass.
She gazes upward,
And our eyes meet.
Hers are a striking blue,
But lead to a place
I would rather not go.

A smile for my trouble,
Something meaningful for my day,
A chance to make a difference,
In a small, but measureable way.

Later, at the cafe,
We dined in style.
Wine and water,
Carefully prepared culinary delights.

I saw her coming
In the corner of my eye,
But the spectre had changed,
And now she wore a smile.

The cane supported her,
But there was a small bounce within her step.
She greeted her friends on the square
And looked as if she'd regained,
A small measure of her self-respect.

In her hand she carried
A small bag.
Two tomatoes,
A squash,
Some mushrooms for her meal.

I thought to myself as I sat there,
With my heart suddenly full,
That to feed another is a gift,
And what a tragedy it must be,
To find yourself,
Begging in Venice.