My Civitella
Say our affection for these days is a big sombrero,
thrown down, for a hat dance, Mexican, of course.
Then it rains and even the metaphysical poets run for cover.
Does this stop us from bowing deeply to welcome you to our castle?
The man in the corner with the guitar, strums the party
Picasso blue. Enough! Enough! Eat! cry the three chefs. Here’s
roasted pork’s sliced on the pool table and even the Isrealites can’t decline.
Here everyone’s a bartender pouring wine from the beak of the rooster.
At all hours our composer bicycles through the cypress grove.
The rain has stopped. Italians teach us words we aren’t to say aloud.
One painter paints a lingering love cry among the tousled bed sheets.
Outside the rock walls, snakes and mint in the road ditches.
Our Radiant Directress cherishes the Madonna’s parting
and swoons us hungry with songs of the briefest red mushrooms.
At night the Count appears with pants that barely stay belted.
He looks about bewildered there is no heir apparent.
We’d put the groundsman at the top of the family tree.
Afternoons he tromps off to scare up rabbit and wild boar.
On the way back the moon’s a tipsy chandelier.
Still we end up smoking in the gravel courtyard up to no good.
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