grollgroll gondola
There're no cars in this sleep. On this street too narrow for nought but fall-fallen leaves and spring melt waters.
In this sinking, forgotten quarter. Faint spice-route scents float on alleyway trade winds. Mile End scents:
garlic, cholent, kebab, curry. Erev shabbos scurry settles into night of rest. The clogged drain lagoon echoes:
monotone davvening, praying, Polo whispering to the Khan. Firewood, fruit and silk laden barges are tug-boated in.
Under cover of squid-inky dark. The gondolier poles his empty black parenthesis up the flooded alleyway,
peers into lamp-lit windows, pleads: Prego, signorina. Please.
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