In my head I have already left
but my feet are still lingering here.
I climb the stone steps to my favorite bar,
order a last espresso and a pastry,
thinking of jets, officials, passports and trouble.
Still the first sip is a positive good.
Sometimes it is hard for me to see the good
as not what, when the bad is gone, is left.
I would have my mind put by its trouble
at least in Italy. And while I’m here
why not simply have another pastry,
talk with the locals lined up at the bar
with cups and glasses. It’s not a tourist bar
and I speak little Italian, that’s not good,
but silence is melted by the pastry
(already no cornetti vuoti left)
and they accept that I am with them here
though they will always have trouble
with my terrible Italian, but this trouble
they accept, at their communal coffee bar.
Of course they also serve some liquor here
as naturally affects the public good.
Sestinas are long and lines are always left,
and I’d like to fill them in with feathery pastry
but it’s almost noon and the bar is out of pastry.
Writing sestinas is a lot of trouble
and somewhat boring; the vision has up and left.
It makes you want to visit another bar,
but none of the other places are this good
and I have come to feel mostly at home here.
The bartender feels some pity for me. Here,
he says, I have found you another pastry.
I bite and taste; once more I’m feeling good.
Thanks I say. He responds, no trouble.
He practices his English standing at the bar.
We chat with caution till no words are left.
Most have left now, only a few are here
Standing at the bar and eating pastry.
I leave behind my trouble. All is good.
_________________________________________________________________
Janet McCann is an ancient Texas poet who lives in a ramshackle house with her two obstreperous dogs. This is a poem about my younger days when I used to teach in Italy.
but my feet are still lingering here.
I climb the stone steps to my favorite bar,
order a last espresso and a pastry,
thinking of jets, officials, passports and trouble.
Still the first sip is a positive good.
Sometimes it is hard for me to see the good
as not what, when the bad is gone, is left.
I would have my mind put by its trouble
at least in Italy. And while I’m here
why not simply have another pastry,
talk with the locals lined up at the bar
with cups and glasses. It’s not a tourist bar
and I speak little Italian, that’s not good,
but silence is melted by the pastry
(already no cornetti vuoti left)
and they accept that I am with them here
though they will always have trouble
with my terrible Italian, but this trouble
they accept, at their communal coffee bar.
Of course they also serve some liquor here
as naturally affects the public good.
Sestinas are long and lines are always left,
and I’d like to fill them in with feathery pastry
but it’s almost noon and the bar is out of pastry.
Writing sestinas is a lot of trouble
and somewhat boring; the vision has up and left.
It makes you want to visit another bar,
but none of the other places are this good
and I have come to feel mostly at home here.
The bartender feels some pity for me. Here,
he says, I have found you another pastry.
I bite and taste; once more I’m feeling good.
Thanks I say. He responds, no trouble.
He practices his English standing at the bar.
We chat with caution till no words are left.
Most have left now, only a few are here
Standing at the bar and eating pastry.
I leave behind my trouble. All is good.
_________________________________________________________________
Janet McCann is an ancient Texas poet who lives in a ramshackle house with her two obstreperous dogs. This is a poem about my younger days when I used to teach in Italy.
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