noise

nearly gone are creaking man-pulled carts

amid narrow stone alleys
the tired depths of old roma
nearly quiet
well after midnight
a woman's clicking heels on pavement stones
tap sharp
rhythmic echoing clicks
small, light hammers on an anvil
like voices from those passing on the street
that scale the walls to windows above
and to the roof tops

then, early
in silent dawn
a small delivery truck
the size of a golf cart
starts its engine

roars, barks and sparks
loud without a muffler
limping from a storage area
under the arch, heading the other way
toward the outdoor market in piazza campo dei fiori

here, thirty yards from the arch
the sound like a chainsaw gone mad rattles our windows
people who live the way he passes
those people
those poor sleep interrupted people
i pity every market day
for roma has no ordinance
against noise