saturday first thing

Saturday first thing
the crack of eight, remember that,
it's the hour to ransack Rome,
cause Romans sleep in the mornings

from our window above i observe a Bangladeshi
load the large wheeled wooden hand cart
for Campo dei Fiori venders Marco and Isa,
the guy needs the work, and they’re older now

we go out and down the alley way,
find Corado working alone at
Rosaria’s store, talk a bit.
he wants to see America some day

then to the laundry that still isn’t open
a half hour past the opening time written on the door.
after fifteen minutes of staring at the sign
we drag our cart to the Laundromat a few streets over

Crazy Mario is working, usually i go on Monday
with Bill the chef, when Luciano works there,
forever grumpy and dreaming aloud
of Thailand beaches, warm weather and low prices

our chores finished, we leave Roma by car to discover
it’s the day, it’s the hour, it’s what every Disneyland in
the world wants to be, charming as Sacrafano’s
medieval village center, rock village on a hill

now freshly green, deep springtime in the air
we have a coffee and walk around.
then to Alberto’s delightful home in the wild,
for lunch, half Calabrese cuisine,

half plain out of this world
Albie’s an artist, even when he cooks.
i’d tell you more but the page is nearly full,
must save room for desert.