Tony Quarrington

Nimble nuns scurry across the square

Heading for their next service fix,

Neatly sidestepping Vespa riders

Who twist and jerk and shudder

Between the imperceptible lanes

That mean as little to them

As pedestrians and traffic lights.

Perched in the middle of the piazza,

A poliziotta municipale

In pristine white helmet and gloves,

In a whirl of her arms

And ear-splitting whistle,

Valiantly struggles to

Manage the morning mayhem.

Every Fiat Panda or Lancia Ypsilon,

Oblivious to battle scars

Of bumps and scrapes,

Jostles for precious –

And inconceivable –

Parking spaces.

Across the red, rutted rooftops

Dogs howl in unison

With the wail of ambulances

And hubbub of honking,

While disoriented tourists

Are pursued and seduced

By waiters with winning smiles

Into perusing the menu turistico.

Outside a small coffee house

Beside a deconsecrated church,

A middle aged woman

Dripping in Gucci and Armani,

Caresses her cappuccino

(It is not quite mezzogiorno yet),

And takes a slow, sultry draw on

Her third Muratti Chiaro cigarette.

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