—On a brilliant day,
A blinding day, thick
With leaving and coming
Bustlers and slackers
And odd sombreros
Clutter the burning pavement.
And under a narrow canopy
Where wines and melons bake
An old gypsy falters
In late afternoon
Barefoot and ringing
To the havoc of the street:
Why must it be so hot in June?
And can these changing faces ever cease?
But the heat is unfazed
And the faces sure
As the sparrow’s nimble feet
On the concrete and the asphalt.
She is half-way down the sidewalk
When the portly old Lenin-cap
Looks up from his tub of folded laundry:
The Trattoria is to blame, I think.
But who can really know? It happened
Noiselessly, like the spaces between
Meanings. It happened in pieces.
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