Some servant of the Medici
ran down this narrow street
into this same stony silence:
our sandals slap the cobbles,
echo off these ochre walls as
easy rhythms of another time.

In shade, these cool stones
still keep the morning’s touch;
in sun, they blaze with searing
orange lust, driving lovers inside,
others into sweet holy shade
inside tall echoing frescoed walls.

A young woman walks ahead
hair bobbing, small purse swinging
beside her hip, muscles carrying her
easily along the narrow marble walk,
silent, a meditation available anywhere,
but here, a sweet musical song
that haunts my Canadian dreams.

Behind his house in his garden,
no matter which winds prevailed,
he was the hearty yardman
who readied his vessel for sails.

For there in his yard was an ocean
so green that his vessel traversed;
so steady it seemed without motion
but ready for gale or worse.

And if there was hint of a party
He knew that his service would be
to swab both the decks like a star; he
loved scrubbing and polished with glee.

And thus are the simple things easy
and thus are the hearty things brave;
you can roam the world here while you’re dreaming
and think of the money you save.

After the all-clear was sounded
and we opened the doors,
and stumbled blinking out
of our bunkers,

after we feted the hero
who plucked the darting
villain out of the air
with a snapped hand towel,

we sighted another miscreant
swooping around the basement:
made its way up to the main floor
before we could call battle stations.

Crap.

They seem to come in pairs.
I don’t know what real
estate agent gives them
our address and a key
to the front door—
or is there a map
of our access points
in Google Maps?

Here I go with the towel again;
it’s the hot weather:
it’s a damn curse.