On this typical
day, I am a voyeur
of laziness, getting off
on nothing. I can’t
imagine how old people
imagine Italy
before the war.
I can’t close my eyes
to peep into my own mind’s
eye and see an old man
counting out his week’s
medication. A butter knife
scoots the chalky pucks
into the daily squares. On Wednesday,
the thud of a western tanager
against the kitchen window
startles him. He drops
the box. An angel
peeled from a
fresco, colored in richest
Italy… where was I?
(Daily Spam 11.6.11)
That's a poem with serious plumage.
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