nobody will sit
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.
