A plague of tourists,
nay a terror of tourists.
In pestilent parades down the Avenue.
Tired toddlers in Easter best,
drag cheap souvenirs (sure to break at home).
Screaming gaggles of teenage hormones
Metro trains vomit globs of strollers and backpacks.
Monuments groan under the girth of their numbers.
Camera lenses steal our souls
while we dodge mis-directed map readers.
This vernal plague has no cure.
There is no inoculation for the locals,
no tourist-icide spray to prevent
walking six abreast on sidewalks, or
hanging from statues like moss in a swamp.
All we can do is take refuge in our unknown quiet,
private gardens of delight.