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.
Tony Quarrington 