Outside
the airport
where the sun
blazes, a brief
but startling
intro to how
temperatures
would rise
during
the day,
freeze in
the morning,
then roast in
the afternoon.
A jacket’s a
burden, no
if’s and’s and
but’s or ways
around it.
Up the hill
where the school
was a car
blasted by,
“basta donne!”
“Enough
women?”
someone asked
out of
disbelief.
“Enough with
the women,”
another
threw in.
“Or, enough
— already— with
the women,” a
third tried.
I came here –
I thought – to
get less
impatient.
Because I
twiddled my
thumbs too
often.
Needed
really cold
water it
seemed
in order
to feel
anything.
Now the
cobblestone
streets Renaissance
Rinasciamento
Italian
Streets, with vines
on the
garden walls
that lined them
and where two
tiny cars
have to stop
wait decide
who should go
first in
something like
play acting
telepathy
in a not
spoken
exchange
and start to
shake off the
plane ride, where
a woman next
to me un-
attentive-
ly flipped through
her copy of
Cosmo, and a
kid to my
left didn’t
do so well
with his
airplane food.
