This one with the tight eyes, Lorenzo
he calls himself, the Magnificent,
chewing at the inside of his lip,
keeping his act up. All day on the bridge
in the alcove built for a saint he’s there
with his singsong change, cambio,
wechsel, drogga, wearing Dante’s face
and the comic’s wall eye leading off
into the sky as he lifts your wallet,
and it’s your own fault, tourist.
There is the long life of the window,
the interminable history of a doorway
that opens into poplared distance –
the Arno I had dreamed of, the old light,
some comfort in the furniture of time,
a little continuity perhaps. And there’s
Lorenzo, sharp eyed and finger quick,
here where he’s always been upon the bridge,
believing as he does in shorter odds
and a free market economy. Him I don’t trust.