It is still a mess
outside.
The jackhammers.
My files.
The digital roar
of words,
makes me
anxious.
I long for Italy.
Gelato on a cone,
and the chickens of San Martino Spino.
They sat in the grass
pecking and clawing,
immune to the world
around them.
Rusty-brown bodies,
producing perfectly tan colored eggs,
that when cracked,
revealed
a brilliant orange yolk inside,
and tasted like no other I have ever eaten.
Rich as cream,
as if the sun had settled in my mouth
and I had swallowed it whole.
How good it all was then,
before the gallbladders
and sores.
Running from town to town.
me and my guitar,
The taste of pesto on my lips.
Hiding beneath blankets in October,
and longing for November,
when the heat would come on.
I can hear their clucking now.
