Collected Poems

Town Square, Italy

Four old men blacksuited
Sat beside a whitewashed wall
At a table outside a café,
Their glasses emptied,
In silence now, counting twelve strokes
From the clock tower
They glanced up at,
After which they rose and parted.

At the street curb they parted
One lingered long, lost it seemed,
Then straightening,
Crossed over to enter
The town square
Where he shuffled his way across
Diagonally, to make it longer,
The sun shining on his back,
His cane tapping lightly
On the warm worn-smooth cobbles.
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