I Go Back to a Venice Bus

I finger the glossy photograph: my mom in a chocolate brown Piero Tucci jacket,
Which boasts of two-week old leather stressed to chic perfection.
The lighter creases where the arm folds
Bring out the highlights in her Brazilian-cut hair.

The threads of her camel-colored Baroni pant suit glint in the ray of sunlight
Shining through the bus window.
Her gaze slants toward the brightest spot, and she smiles slightly.
Her eyelids look soft and smooth.

She did not want to look like an American tourist
Like last time
With her yellow Nautica jacket and white Reeboks,
So fashionable in her element.

She studied up on Italian fashion and spent two months’ pay
On a week’s worth of travel clothing.
A pair of dark ochre Alessandro Dell’ Aqua shoes,
And the aforementioned Piero Tucci jacket.

But as my eyes slide to the right of her,
I see myself
Hunched over with both hands over my mouth.
My designer shoe-clad feet are frozen amid the center of my attention.

My eyes are open wide,
Wide enough to take in my mom’s feet too.
In place of her Dell’ Aquas are black nylon Nikes
With the unmistakable white plastic swoosh.

She failed to break in her shoes
And looked like an American tourist after all.