Piatza de Santo Spirito,
Nights call to round in circle.
Sitting outside on the church steps,
Locals saturate this place.
Sweltering, rich in life,
At the fountain, the regulars unite.
Beautiful wanders of the countryside.
Boozed and ranting under the moon light,
Their starving dogs mating, wild, roaming free.
We’re soaking in the saxophonist tugging on our heart strings,
People laughing, dancing, chattering, in more languages than one could believe,
The air heavy scented with rich Italian spices.
Cloves of garlic, rich aromas of oregano, and basil.
Indulgences of the sweltering mouth.
Here we are,
Men and women,
New friends and acquaintances,
Passing around bottles of wine.
Drunk and giddy,
Engaging in discussion of true loves critique.
We’re certain of committing a sin, on these sacred steps.
Yet, caring little, the night whisked away.
In a heavy African accent approached a regular.
Interrupting, aggressively offering “hashish,”
Giving up after third and fourth attempts,
At last, joining our caravan.
Unison in multiple dialects,
All engaging in critique.
Circled,
Befriended,
We were brothers and sisters of the Italian night.
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