Olive Groves by Robin Hamman
I am jealous of south Italian olive farmers,
their white linen sheets hung out to dry in a sun that I could never recognize
Their wives sweeter than their exports, big brown eyes with a tabby cat always by her feet and when she makes a joke I laugh despite not knowing what she’s saying
Of boys who skateboard with ripped knees and broken ribs, missing teeth are cute if you show me a video of you smashing your face into concrete
They play electric but in a band you’ll never actually see
I’m wearing lavender tonight in honor of still being content even if I wish my name was sandy because she’s blonde and pretty and lives by the ocean
There is still hope though, in the faux constellations we make up to substitute our own shit zodiac readings
Astronauts point at us from space to call us stupid because finding shapes in clouds gets old when you can pretend to find lives in people
I tell everyone I love them but I really only love you, moonman, you’ve been so bright
I only ever found a few poems on the Dublin Missed Connections, but I liked this one because the reference to southern Italy is so warm and inviting. With winter digging in, any form of escapism is appreciated.
