Concerto for two trumpets in C

While Vivaldi played,
we said unflattering things about my ex-girlfriend from earlier that year.
There are kinder creatures living under rocks,
so if we talked her down
she deserved it and a ticket out of town.

"Did she make you come?" you wanted to know,
ever the ethereal philospher,
like Vivaldi, priest and composer--
and I told you no, no she did not.

Vivaldi was born in Venice,
borne by water and the Divine spark,
but you, 
you are as Turkish as a crescent moon and star.
The English tucked their tails and fled Gallipoli
because they saw you foretold.

When I talk this way, you roll your eyes.
You say,
"Not everyone thinks I'm as wonderful as you do, Shay."
Fools. I can't account for them,
and anyway,
you look so smug even as you deny.

I am as slow as the four seasons,
inhabited by movements and tempos beyond even my own reach.
There are rigged carnival games easier to solve than I am,
and besides,
I have always been more fascinated by the sorceress's candles
than by common fireworks.

You level a look at me, dark-eyed and not bothered
with Christian ceremony or habitual reserve.
"Come here," you say, not harshly, not sweetly.
"Now."
Venice is known for festivals and lights, as well as its canals--
sometimes a new arrival takes the old city as a challenge,
taking her time,
finding her own way,
walking on water as Vivaldi plays.
_______

for Marian's challenge at Real Toads.