Bikes come swerving
in and out of the mass of
brightly-colored shirts and olive skin.
We blend in
although we weren't born here.
We are three women,
black attire from sunglasses to sandals.

We arrived here Sunday -
today is Tuesday -
yet we've memorized which sign
of dusty brick and faded letters
signal this is our street.

City of bridges -
I can walk on water here.
Restaurant owners cheer from their posts,
claiming this is "true Italian."
Outdoor restaurants, the preferred
lens to take in the city
in all its blue-green water,
bridge and gondola-transporting,
ivy-colored glory.

Men and women dine,
puff smoke in rings and clouds,
drink red vino,
their native tongue spilling from their lips -
movie stars, maybe.
No,
they're the locals.
We're the tourists here.