nobody will sit

Cabot Square. Graphic jc

nobody will sit

in the pink 

upholstered armchair 

that rests along the base 

of Giovanni Caboto’s monument. 

 

He stands atop his history 

in relief. 

one hand holding 

empirical authority, 

the other raised eternally 

against the sun-

            to shield it from 

            his gaze. 

 

plastic crinkles as reflective vests clean the park.

it is here 

in Cabot Square 

where the summer air has never smelt so unsweet

and people sleep forever 

in plastic covers 

on concrete beds. 

 

A man in a faded crop top, 

strapped 

with a small pink guitar, 

sings hoarsely 

to unlistening pigeons. 

 

near the impotent drinking fountain

a woman wearing headphones 

speaks with strangers 

and leaves 

20 dollars richer. 

 

 

          Oh, John-

you are far from Italy, 

and many miles 

from India still. 

I pity the object, 

         that became you. 

 

a plastic web 

tangles two trees. 

condos under construction 

will surely have breathtaking views. 

 

a photographer spots the empty armchair-

                         lines up the shot. 

steals from it, 

too easily-

a moment of poetry. 

 

 

            Where did you go, Caboto? 

Are you trapped inside 

this bronze coffin? 

Some say you were lost at sea, 

swallowed by a storm, 

as if the Earth herself 

rejected your mission. 

 

 

a lump of a man slumps down beside me

and starts to read his grocery receipt. 

 

 

near the chair 

a couple drop their belongings, giggling,

they watch each other. 

one walks away 

making pigeons fly-

soon the other lover follows.

 

an older man with a vest, 

a Pepsi, and portable radio 

playing French hip-hop, 

dances 

with Giovanni, 

running his fingers 

along the stony base. 

            the armchair, 

carefully ignored. 

 

cops pass by-

less interested 

in the indigenous disposition 

of abandoned things. 

 

the couple returns to the statue 

with languor 

in the flaccid afternoon light. 

 

I’m pretty sure the guy 

next to me now 

is eating something 

smelling of garlic and fat 

out of a plastic bag. 

 

 

Why do you search the horizon still? 

 

The last ships set sail 

                                    long ago 

turn your gaze to the ground 

            these are your people now. 

there is nothing left 

to be discovered here, 

and the only worlds that have yet to be conquered

are the ones inside of us. 

 

nobody 

will sit 

in Caboto’s chair.

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 3, published October 1, 2024.