IN VENICE

Wondering what it's
all about,
it looks like the rain
took over the drought
this noon hour in June
perhaps here in Venice
there are many weddings
by a bevy of sailboats
which suddenly collapses
in a Whistler's fog,
wondering if this is an omen
on a dusky late afternoon
by traces of grey sky clouds
over crowded canals
and a shrouded lagoon
visiting my successful niece
and dramatic coloratura,
Lorraine,
looking like a portrait
by Matisse
originally from South Carolina
who lives her summers
in China, Maine
marries under the rose trellis
of a merchant's canopy
who carries one marigold
in her musical hands
over her dark tresses
reminding me
of a Fra Lippo Lippi
in my photo of her
in a soft Joie calliope dress
by her solid enfolded train
from an Italian designer
who sings to her
a lyrical wedding aria
of Verdi
from La Traviata's chorus
with a hired band
in the dark corridor
as I recite poetry by Verlaine
and play on my tenor sax
a tune of Tchaikovsky
from Francesca Da Rimini,
as this operatic actress's life
was on hold and gone
in a metamorphosis
to relax for one week
on this cloudy honeymoon
without the lofty loneliness
of her thirty year situation
when Opera News
with her often on the cover
as Terpsichore
was her only Muse and lover.