Sunday, September 13, 2015


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.

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