Italia.
Cigarette-smoking trains huff in their station slots
Drying clothes, trousers and dresses wave at us from their perches on lanai railings
I don't know the Italian word for lanai
Or any other words, for that matter
But I know that this crying child breathes tears in the same language
As every other child on earth.
That this bathroom, with it's frosted-glass, one euro entrance,
Is out of toilet paper, too.
Just like the ones in Seattle and Chicago.
Buildings hoary with TV antennae
And the praying mantis legs of power lines above us
We drift through an insect world, all squeaks and rumbles
Chewing at something, anything, everything.
I ate a cheese and bread breakfast over tulip fields in the Netherlands
And even now, gliding down a steel rail through Rome,
Six colors of spray paint on a tagged wall through a window in my left,
And centuries-old ruin of brick and moss on my right,
Even now, my world,
It grow smaller
And brighter
And closer to home.
No comments:
Post a Comment