The skeletons in your closet gloat their Harleys
as a bobber dips below the surface
and you imagine a plate of crêpes with an old friend
in a seaside town
catching up on interpersonals
the who what when where whys
of your collaborative one-acts . . .
You consider skipping the chapter
(you've done this before with little consequence)
but step down . . . tiller glued to your palm
as if guiding a sloop through a narrow canal
within arms reach of kids fishing off the pier . . .
The clock flusters
wringing its hands which must resume
their pantomime of stuttered signage . . .
words infinitely looped to storm ignorance . . .
Again the palette complicates . . .
Perhaps you should use ultramarine to color
the major and minor keys
soundtracking your tête-à-têtes
on rain-soaked afternoons . . . in rain-soaked sidings . . .
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| Fabio Chizzola |