explosion of good time

still in bed
woke to worker’s
voices in the hall.
amid the banter

one called softly, “Jack”
the voice of my dad
only it wasn’t, or was it.
who can tell

though it was enough
to make me smile,
remember and feel warm
somewhere deep

b.

the two guys from Romania
are quiet good workers
the kid, twenty
is a Bugie

in Italian, our common language, i question.
he’s from Bulgaria, they respond
as if that explained his immaturity,
and being consistently noisy.

c.

explosion of good time
we left home
packed for shopping
off in a rush

Esquilino Market they serve
fast with plastic bags,
paper and crowds, trucks unloading,
wooden crates, moving faces and sales

a background of green leaves, no music,
light talk humming like chicadas.
had coffee and a sweet roll
coffee man and his wife recognized us

red egg yoke lady
in good tune
spoke to M. about how to
make a tasty frappe for Carnevale

got two large plantains at another stall
not bananas you know, she said
i hope not, i replied
i'm going to fry one with an egg

a call to alert - make way
for a box-loaded hand cart
a small man
pushing metal on wheels through

many greens, hand cut minestrone,
hot peppers and nuts we bag away
a moray eel we saw but
did not take one home

moves like a city ghost
rides like a bumpy carriage
over cobblestones
our practically private bus

cause our car has found parking
too sweet to vacate
alberto has re attached a side mirror
for some other to scrape off again

and Friday the soggiorno went well
all persons helpful for us to live here
call them kind
Roma loves us again

to better swerve

traffic cops in Rome have special uniforms.
high leather equestrian boots,
white tall helmets like dessert legionnaires.
one stopped our bus in the center of Rome

hopped aboard to hitch a ride
up three stops on Via del Corso.
he was knocking off early,
or had hot shopping to do.

anyway,
viva the good guys.
may they hop a bus
anytime.

to joseph no apostrophe s

an intercity eatery found
when the old worn mechanic
pointed, there’s where to go,
enjoy a buffet spread long and fair

among good people working
it was an honor, a delight mid-day
care taken in particulars,
choose desires well prepared

with no haste, to taste time
and a glass of red wine
can this be Rome
seems like coming home

meant to so verify

morning laundry and coffee
with Texas Bill in attendance.
43 years as a freelance embassy chef.
you’d think he’d have learned his lesson.

now he’s growing a beard
for a Shakespeare play he’s in.
i know he has 18 lines,
he told me 29 times.

we’ll see an early
show if we can stay
up that late hope
they talk fast

hey, so-called every day stuff
also happens in Rome, you know.
but life is a poem anywhere you look
at it skewed with jelly on as i do

pay only

3 euro a week ,
to any Tim phone,
call 'em often,
talk long as you want.

Giacomo changed to Vodafone
so he’s made my list
of whom to call
less often.

i left 44

where 62 was next
at the other post office.
now 73 is up at this one
and my number is 97.

28 potential
customers are waiting.
with 11 windows,
6 are open, more or less.

it was 1890

it was 1890 when Bill was here
traveling Europe by train.
Naples, Rome, then Florence
with horses, Indians and Annie Oakley.

too many large stones and rubble,
and he had wanted to do the
wild west show in the Colosseum.
so they decided to perform right outside.

i know he had a drink at the bar on Via Condotti
on that corner by the Spanish steps,
cause 121 years later i walked over there
and saw the photographic proof

taken there that day in all his glory,
and is still on the wall.
even 12l years ago they called Mr.Cody the name
we know him by - he was Buffalo Bill.

deep searching

m. is reading about
a deep mine in England where
scientists search for dark matter.
world over they are looking.

they need a space
where gamma rays
and cosmic rays won’t penetrate,
kinda like my closet.

i asked her what they are going to make
out of this dark matter
when they finally find it.
she said, “shoes”.

feeling not seeing

this morning thinking of them
from half a world away
i am faraway observer
recollecting now

those come and gone
friends, accomplices, on this earth
linked, liked, loved and endured
is it even necessary to recall

one's loved best of all
and so many, many others
come and oftimes vanished
pieces in the puzzle

apparently we didn’t put it together
just found ourselves here
tap-dancing the boards to the rhythms
in this game called life

pillows you dream on

please don’t send me
any more pillows
that you dream on.
especially not C.O.D.

as it is, the house and car
are full up with pillows,
in fact, it’s getting hard
to make a right turn.

if you send more pillows
i’ll have to rent
a storage space. anyway,
i think i’m being watched.

fish and water

fish and water
get along,
and better they stay
where they oughter.

don’wanna catch ‘em
one morning
laughing together
on my back porch.

eclipse

off to see James in the morning
when on a walk toward the tram
Mirella passes and says an eclipse will be
in five minutes by her watch

i suggest there will not be much change
as she went eyes skyward upon her way
when two minutes later from
the opposite direction came her husband

and i told Roberto good
day there will be an eclipse
in a moment but do not
expect much change

i will mention the eclipse then
to James when
i see him
and ask then if he noticed

2010 - the end

to mom and dad,
uncles and aunts
neighbors Phil and Rosey,
the kids i grew up with,

the women i've loved,
to my kids and theirs.
stack ‘em up,
all the way down.

to creeks jumped
and those fallen into.
bridges crossed,
those ducked under.

to all frogs and the fish,
the birds and the clouds,
rain in the forest,
over brambles, through fields,

and down long highways.
in sun, snow and heavy sea,
flowers, weeds and vegatebles - this is it:
a salute to the finish

of the first decade,
in this twenty-first Century.
for bygones well done,
the best to you from me.

postcard from Rome

postcard from Rome
also to Rome
if like say you live here and I’m
sending this to you. but don’t kid yourself.

i am sandwiched like peanut butter and whatever,
between languages and cultures,
an example of contradiction and/or combination,
that, more or less, function, even thrive

or seem to, in this chaotic basket of the active world.
not an angle, not a corner.
a catch-trapping thing,
like a basket.

a walk over the bridge Ponte Sisto before noon.
where one can see the Vatican.
or two can see the same thing.
ponte means bridge, none the less.

less is more? by the way,
whoever said that should go back to school.
perform penance by subtraction, and quit
making up esoteric sayings like that.

when i cross (the bridge again)
the Japanese accordion guy will be on the bridge.
i will drop un euro into his case,
then go straight ahead toward Fontana Trilusa

then on into Trastevere and lunch.
Chinese food with our friend Maria.
it’s our usual Sunday in Rome, or call it Roma
if you’re Italian or if like say you live here.

you know, they call this city Roma,
and the Roma are the people from Romania,
who are also called the Gypsies,
but are on the wrap-around periphery of this poem.

and did I ever tell you
the Chinese lady who runs the restaurant
is also called Maria, and she picked that name herself
because her Chinese name is unpronounceable for Italians.

oh, i never say an euro, it’s always un euro.
cause i’m not speaking English
when i’m talking euro. hai capito?
who can blame me?

well there you have it, now mark the bridge
with an X on the picture postcard,
and write – “we are here”
that pretty much tells the story and should do just fine.

hot ride

a can full of fish, this bus
all gray; water and oil nearly dripping off the walls.
sealed tight, standing,
packed for shipping, we are.

temperature rising, heater on.
not a window open.
must be sales on perfumes, colognes and smelly food,
or they’re rubbing it on people as they board.

jerky stops,
jerky starts
hold on tight,
it’s good training for pole dancers.

everyone on cell phones
talk it up, talk it down.
welcome aboard,
we’re going to town.

we svelte

she claims it is a sign of getting old
when i mornings move myself mumbling
whether to wear a belt or suspenders.

yet, i never have to back up
at the check out counter
to reach into my front pants pockets.

it is a known fact of material mechanics,
pants often stretch
from repeated washings.

spiritly jaunting across the street,
my trousers sag,
legs flapping in the wind.

obviously, persons of girth
never have to suffer
what we svelte must endure.

like old times

pizza, a slice for me, a short walk away,
just across the bridge; then looking,
almost shopping with M.
this is the holiday spirit, about that.

she went on, while back i went
for a white plastic plate and fork,
and steamy hot carbonara, 2.40 euro and tasty.
with the workers and locals in line, got mine ,

ate on the street outside,
propped up on a road thing,
that stuck up there as an indicator
and good like-for to lean on.

for every season
there is a reason
turn, turn, turn
onwards and upwards.

sixteen chimneys

sixteen chimneys
close together
like the wet slippery street cobblestones
close together on one small roof top

maybe there were more
lost count
street stones, gaps, spaces, irregular
wet and slippery.

thinning out for the holidays, traffic
light, so they go faster
amid patter of many feet
and the mutter of motorinos.

at Pasquali’s ordered pasta gregia – grey
eating it when
M. said it was
pomodori and zucchini

i had enough red pepperincino, hot peppers, on it
hadn’t noticed it was not grey
cause while i ate
i was still thinking about chimneys.

papery thin

papery thin
that’s my skin,
physically, metaphorically
and that’s okay, it’s a fine day,

and i’m used to my skin,
been around with it a while.
just today we had coffee together,
even wear the same shoe size.

now watching sun pouring in.
first light, my favorite.
dawn’s early,
as it should be.

got me thinking, as the sky
blue poco loco shines from above
in this doggie dog world. i don’t know why.
must be the heat, or the lack thereof.

so, what’s new?
how’s you been in your skin?
staying well? getting enough rest?
do your best. i’m pullin’ for you.

savor the moments,
laminate these layers of time in your head.
and don’t worry when you go to bed, you can’t know
what to expect, ‘cept it keeps getting better.

thunder and snow

a week before Christmas,
in cold enough Rome,
clack rattling hail and rolling boom thunder
shakes walls and smacks windows at home.

looking out, blurry blue snowgusts and
patches of ice, show by street lamp light,
now in dark, and still wind,
hard rain falls tonight.