The Map

Wandering lost and lonely in Bologna

I found a street-map on the piazza.

Unfortunately, it was of Verona.

As I was refolding it into a limp concertina,

A voice: ‘Ah, you’ve found it! I’m Fiona,

Let me buy you a spritzer, over there on the terraza.’

Two spritzers later we ordered some pasta

(Bolognese, of course, then zabaglione).

I felt no remorse, merely amore.

Proposing a toast to love at first sight

We laughed and talked over a carafe of chianti

When out of the night, like a ghost, walked my aunty.

‘Look who’s here,’ she cried. ‘If if isn’t our Tony,

Fancy bumping into you in Italy,

With a lady friend too,’ then added, bitterly:

‘How are Lynda and the kids? I’m sure they’re OK.

While the mice are at home the tomcat will play.’

A nod to Fiona, ‘Nice to meet you. Ciao!’

I snapped my grissini. ‘Stupid old cow!’

Then turned to Fiona. She was no longer there.

Our romance in tatters, like the map on her chair.