The Tourist** (Seven Paintings No.3) Poem by Neil Young

The narrow street as still as Sunday
Climbs devoutly to the church
Whose campanile, an exclamation,

Claims all souls within its care.
A rotund woman carries home
Two shopping bags, rotund as her.

Bespectacled, the only ‘tourist’
Here, inspects cheap postcards in the rack
Outside the Crème Angleise; short sight,

His curse; can he not see beyond them?
Limp buildings leaning back, allow
Bold sun to stir those drowsy rooms

Across the street. The coast cannot
Be seen. You know it’s there; salt air
Reminds you of your sea worn home.