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.

road again

some road cops on the cruise
with nothing to do get a kick
driving fast and laying on the siren
they passed us like a bat out of hell

stopped for lunch at a mom and pa diner
in an atomic particle of a town.
out front a parking space for two was open
‘til that guy in front of me pulls into it

goes right in the middle
takes it all, he does
not thinking of me or you,
that’s how Italbillys do

during, before and after pasta,
vegetables, warm pie and coffee, i sort
piles of notes from my pockets
x ‘em out when they’re done, i do

at home i keep one of the old cigar boxes dad used
little notes and numbers
written all over it
a boy has to learn somewhere

the Giant Cyclops had it right
tell the villagers to leave some sheep
tied up by the cave at the bottom of the hill
or there’s going to be trouble, problem solved

lunch was home cooked good
made new friends
learned the river was down,
not rushing like years before

a local truck, vegetables in the back
parked outside
after lunch we gandered,
chatted, got fruit, we did

the road home, windows up against the chill,
all the way we could smell the strawberries
nestled in the trunk of the car.
now that’s a poem, partner

i smile satisfied

crossing traffic
with bullfighter ease
having done it before
it’s a breeze

turning left
then I squeeze
across the lane
step, step

like a dance
kind of nifty
Hey - that SOB
almost hit me

baby down the well

baby down the well,
what the hell?
half a world away people talk
like it’s going on next door

next thing the playoff games
shadowed out by Dancing with the Stars,
you need some more distraction,
we’ve got robots going to Mars

so many i don't know

been through so many books
don’t know what all i’ve read,
who wrote them
or what they all said

while some of it took,
seems the most of it, i dread,
is floating here somewhere,
swirling downstream in my head

since the colosseum

in Roma the paper trail
dreadful long, runs deep,
employment for a relative,
nothing to do with efficiency

if they’re selling chances
don’t bet against it,
the outcome is fixed in stone,
that’s how it goes

Roma has the reputation
to convolute everything,
and lives up to it
every imaginable way

out of Roma ahead of the volcano

set a land speed record
on an intercity bus to the termini
the driver was in a hurry
to smoke or pee or call mama on his break

at the train station
oh the humanity
European victims of the volcano cloud
hurrying in, to find a way out

training south we stopped at Formia
a knowledgeable passenger said we’d be stopped a few minutes
i was three seconds from stepping off for a walk outside
as the door snapped closed and the train took off

a guy who saw it all
said it was close to disaster for me
and nearly smiled
when he said it

through Naples we passed
a dozen twenty story
apartment buildings with balconies
on all sides, all the way down

in Sapri stayed at a downtown hotel
a small park away from the sea
the racket was traffic and breaking waves of humanity
it was a fine afternoon

that evening at a local bar
i had a beer, M. had a glass of wine
served by the youngest bartender in Europe
my shoes are older than him

crashing waves
whish of the trees
laughing people
between us and the sea

so the volcano puffs
airports close
we had enough
soon we’re heading home

fat mouse sleeping

fat mouse sleeping
is how we travel usually,
but not this bus, we let the good one go,
and took one with the square wheels

and the driver who that very morning
dropped off his mother,
three sisters and fiancee
at the nut house

his grin as he drove reminded me of the odd man,
a regular at a lunch counter in San Francisco,
with the black rubber toupee that clung to his head
like a sleeping alligator, i shuddered

and looked over to M. to see how she rode,
one hand on the saddle horn like a broncobuster
grinning without hanging on
and knew she was fearless

fat mouse sleeping
is where i wanna be
but not on this bus
the one with square wheels

the world's most expensive carpet

6.2 million dollars, the world’s most expensive carpet
sold, how about that and what do you know,
my carpet is for sale right now
for 6.3 million, the one by the door

put that in the Guinness record book
as the highest price asked for a carpet
call the queen or someone
Paris Hilton or Sharon Stone maybe

i’ll put a sign on the back of my pickup truck
and drive down to the Pied Piper
the local ice cream place and celebrate
i’ll buy – they’ll probably only get small cones

wait – let me think about this,
i won’t need a shot of botox will i?
couldn’t they use an old picture of me
or one of Pierce Brosnan and say it’s me?

maybe i’d better just drink
my morning coffee and think about it,
yeah, i do want to be reasonable,
yeah, that’s me, good old Mr. Reasonable

so life is but a dream

so life is but a dream,
here’s one to sleep on,
we rocket back in time, she and i

take our journey in a flash,
contract it into a night
to see some high points

spend two days at that place
high above the beach in Zijuatenejo
have a nice dinner under stars

two days in the Piute mountains
our cabin , old friends dropping by
the wood stove, where it all began

two days on the boat in Sausalito
the cat’s there lying in the sun
what a decade that was

two days with my folks in Ohio
two with yours in Arizona
make those family festive occasions,

two in Hawaii on bicycles and camping
two in Italy on trains, busing, walking,
wine, pasta and pizza of course,

add two in Sonoma on the crazy oats ranch,
a couple of days here, a couple there,
a whirlwind happy couple dream

we rode the long ride
rose and fell with the tide
and iknow, sweetheart, we’d do it again

like gamblers with fortune smiling
we had the cards and the stars in our favor
someone’s watching over us

packed for business

waiting by the stop, standing there
saw one aged, elbow high on M.
looked shorter, had tall hair,
the bus arrived, all boarded

thirty minutes later i tried to call M.
to let her know i was still on the bus
and that i was thinking of her,
sadly, i found her phone was off

she was up there somewhere
in the front of the same bus as me,
stuck and folded in the pile of humanity,
excommunicato

out the widow i saw at a glance a guy walking
head down thinking hard hands in the pocket of his pants,
nearly walked in front of the bus
where the hell was his wife?!

SRO, never seats enough
designed in Italy for beauty,
never function, you want to ride,
you need a ticket and gumption

and we made the run
had some fun
got stuff done
it’s never easy

doing what we can
as woman and man,
plus a crowd of others,
world sisters and brothers

and to you i can say
whether work or play, until it’s done
let it gleam and shine in every way
cause this is your day in the sun

tram this time

riding an underground mortuary
with the undead, where the noise of screeching
is paralyzing, the cost of grease must have
rocketed on the wings of the price of oil

eight stops and one-half migraine later
above ground, near empty ears
vibrate from a train passing
in the other direction

at last we had finally made it
to Hell’s End
to wait for a bus, it was sunny
my jacket now too heavy

thirty minutes later the bus arrived
when all boarded
the driver left
for a 15 minute break

foreigners aboard
heading for the office of immigration
to redo papers and fingerprints in case they changed
all for the pleasure of remaining in Italy

with the bus seemingly packed
at the first stop
we topped off, packed again
just to be sure it was filled to capacity

now my jacket acted like a heat blanket
felt a draft of cool air,
must have been a mistake
or the breath of an evil spirit

at the new office
200 people in a space for fifty
18 windows do business,
three were open

we had twenty minutes
window close at 1130, then reopen after lunch at 330
but we made it in time to hear
we should come back in the fall

seems we were here just a century ago
when we got back in the subway
zipping the way they say takes time
off a test-tube rat’s life

then near the termini
the happy people, 2
sat down for Indian Fast Food,
ate lunch and swallowed defeat

the elevator

across the street
workers were taking down letters
of the store name - Rinascimento
large metal script going one at a time

right into the trash
the name of the store could be read
on the unpainted wall
where for years the letters had hung

only O remained,
i was thinking
how i could use it
before it went down the drain into history forever

on my way into a nearby building,
a guy by the door was playing a violin so badly
he should offer people coins from his cup
for the aggravation he caused all too eagerly

i barely squeezed into the elevator
as the door closed it took off shaking chains,
one of those old rattling jobs
that sounded like Jacob Marley’s ghost

the little barred box we were in
was a packed rocket ascending,
as i noticed over the elevator door
900 kg 12 persons, a warning

i saw it too late for us,
we were locked down in a cage of the type
used to load wild animals
aboard a ship in Borneo in ancient times

there were too many in here,
couldn’t count them all,
that large one counts for two
had to start over three times

carry the four, 900 kilos divided into 12 people
is how much? nine into 12,
two zeros left
I’ll use them later,

reminded me of the letter O
i left behind,
must do the math quickly
or ring the bell and run

it’s about an eight floor building
high enough if it goes down fast,
i suppose there is a basement,
count that as another floor to drop

i broke out in a sweat
as the box quit shaking
and hung there
having arrived at some floor

didn’t matter where,
the door opened everyone bailed,
headed for the stair
before we all got impaled

your invitation

to walk in the woods
birds over head, rolling clouds in the blue
by roads end, long grass and sticks,
kick around shall we, with family and friends

some sunny afternoon time together,
stretch into evening purple shadows
bring food and drink to share
we’ll make a warm fire

take along your musical instrument
for sweet sounds, we’ll sing along
remember a soft blanket to sit on
goodwill will ring in our voices

when you like, old friend
whenever we can
let’s make it happen,
consider this a personal invitation

review

each day i note in quick review
stories true or fabricated
nothing untoward in what i do
brief impressions are here related

passing trains inside our head
haul events that we recall
piled higher than our daily bread
no way can we digest it all

lived in a ghost town

lived two years in a ghost town,
was a small graveyard
and a few cabins
there on the mountain

four or five folks lived within a few miles
a few more came on weekends
the judge married us there
amid a gathering of family and friends

we lived an hour from the nearest town,
our post office box,
traffic, a store or two
and people in general

electricity, none to speak of,
running water was a stream
and our well we pumped by hand
on a log tripod with wooden spool and rope

we had a battery powered radio
the scary programs on CBS mystery theater
was our nine p.m. entertainment
with a fire in the pot belly stove

and wind in the trees,
on moonless nights
after a scary show i’d accompany her
to the outhouse

once a park bear
that got too used to handouts
was dumped off in our part
and showed up on our porch

he got his nose
in some white lime powder
then stood on our porch on his hind legs
and left his powdery white nose print on our screen door

lucky for me he went away when i yelled at him
and he didn’t step through the screen into the kitchen
or it would have been suddenly
very crowded in there

stories and good times
we had a lot of them
our time in the woods
makes me smile thinking

The Internet Alerts Us

my morning coffee ritual
in our dark somber apartment in Rome
was speed jolt interrupted as
M. read aloud the full story

direct from the Internet
of the alarm caused by a guy
who smoked in the first class restroom
aboard a plane flying to Denver

when asked by security what he was doing
because they had smelled smoke in the bathroom,
he jokingly said he was lighting his shoes on fire.
they slammed him in his seat and cuffed him

causing two scrambled fierce military jets to accompany
the airliner while landing or, if need be, shoot it down.
bringing to mind actor and later President Ronald Reagan
who once said, “Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.”

as i quietly sipped my coffee in the far away zone
and thanked my lucky stars the Internet keeps us
informed and alert to the goings on
in restrooms high over Denver and other places

then went back
to finish watching
a six year old prodigy
play the piano in China

been on the road

been on the road and made it
back to Rome from away
quite a week it was.
label us vacationed to the hilt.

she drove the lion share, has the stuff
to persist, fight traffic and hold the gate.
now back, unpacked, thank goodness,
tomorrow we recuperate

can't see it

i can’t see it as a whole
not as well as you.
yes, i write this everyday,
from the middle where it’s spinning fast

i don’t see it as others do,
for it pops in pieces in front of you
in carefree digestible bits.
you have an idea how it goes

better to look from afar,
analyze the pieces.
and then tell me what happened
when it’s over

another life

in another life,
i’m pretty sure
i wasn’t king or queen
or dog or cat

i think i was a dandelion,
and we’d just grow
with nothing to know,
tens of thousands of us

turning our heads
to honor the light of the sun
we sang together
a lot of songs

never had words to learn
we’d just turn
to the sun and knew the music,
we were like one