Sitting cross-legged beside the statue
of Tassoni in the Piazza della Ghirlandina,
a child is practising to be a beggar.
We wish him well.
We who sit with a cappuccino
in the Via Sant’Eufemia
at four thirty in the afternoon
awaiting the passeggiata of students.
Scuttling along platform three of the station
at Reggio Emilia, a lame spider
spins his drunken web: ‘Mangiare. Mangiare?’
His cap is empty, but we wish him well.
We who roast chestnuts, freshly gathered,
and speckle Parmigiana with vintage aceto di Modena.
We who smile at photographs of ourselves when young
while sipping grappa distilled from grapes harvested by moonlight.
We who are loyal but not faithful
who give voice to the inarticulate
who breathe life into the inanimate
who observe from a distance, all-knowing.
We who, at the touch of a key,
fill the spider’s cap with fine cheese and chestnuts,
the child’s bowl with gold overflowing.
Aren’t we the lucky ones?