I used to be jealous of friends
who holidayed in Greece
or Italy. But all
they brought back was a tan
and photographs of one another
in t-shirts, looking fat.
Behind there’d be
the Bridge of Sighs, or the Aegean Sea.
And all they ever talked about was food.
Goat cheese, white peaches, cheap wine, the two ice-cream
shops in Florence
not to be missed, the endless little restaurants
in which proud patrons serve
a procession of courses, a salad, plus a bombe
for the price of a Pret sushi pack.
Or how they’d lived for weeks just like a peasant,
eating bread and olives on a beach.
I could learn more at an evening class.
Also, sometimes I think
it’s who (not where) you are which puts
things out of reach.
First published in Staple