Carabinieri like drunks search the fissures.
The line-up of drinkers is harsh but hollow -
everyone here is fairly harmless. The burly
firemen come in to brag; they show off with
their women, their girls and wives, to nothing
as much as the delight of their chums. Without
fail, there's always a British accent or two among
the others; a 'mate' or a 'chap' for the taking. Even
the old bookcovers on the walls - were they able to
speak - would sound funny, I'm sure. Now all that
is gone. I sit nowhere, by myself, and staring at bare
boards and the hollow stuff of tales and stories.