Sparrows land nervously on backs
of chairs . . . which they punctuate.
Pigeons stroll unruffled between feet;
seagulls peer from tops of umbrellas,
certain there's no sling shot in this
migrant Italian Melbourne suburb.
Feathered dinosaurs: peckish-brave,
cocksure. Diners wave them off!
They barely shift, let alone exercise
those miraculous wings.
Crust of bread. Crumb of cake.
Knowing how the system works,
they're willing to put in the hours.
I give 'em clean plates 'n dirty looks.
Soft-headed woman to my right,
Mama Teresa of Australia,
feeds God's insatiable creatures,
encourages uppity beggars who
then expect something for nothing.
I wear myself out for my pay
which translates into scrumptious
aperitivi then sweets with espresso.
Melburnians of all backgrounds flock
to Brunetti to sip, peck at panini,
gobble up an array of desserts.
We jostle to survey sugary delights
within glass cases, place orders/pay
then devour our fill, and more.
Later, back in our suburban nests,
we drink tap water, take a tablet,
feel a bit guilty, sickish, fulfilled.
Foto Sicily: Fashion
and current volcanoes
both fashionably smoke
on their way to extinction.
One smallish, ragged, insubstantial
cloud, high above formidable
remaining pieces of Greek temples
near what is now called Agrigento,
a bustling, filthy tourist town of this
day’s Italian, not Greek Sicily.
I view things from my temporary
vantage point. What else?
Valley of the Temples is not a valley
in any terrain sense and defunct
temples are crumbling, vandalised
attractions some think more romantic
by night, illuminated not by moon
but, more dependable, spotlights.
Little cloud, illuminated by sun,
changes shape as it ages.
Made-to-last temples take millennia to
completely unmake, despite destructive
invaders, relentless wind, rain,
Cloud seems wistful, free as it floats
through atmosphere as, I suppose,
we all do from some distance.
All barely here yet imagining
precious raindrops or marble
permanence, while absorbing
rays from an indifferent star.