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June 2008, vol 4 no 2

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Bob Lucky

 

Three

In the village the church bell intones the hour. We arrive just in time to hear the monotonous clanging of noon noon noon noon - like a dotted line dividing morning from the rest of the day. After a long and leisurely lunch, we check into a pensione and go out to explore. The clock strikes three three three. It is inexplicably sad, like a dirge: three three three. Stopping in a café, we have a brandy we don't need, and then several espressos, as we stare at the remainder of the afternoon.

around the steeple
the clamor of bats
gathering dusk
when I touch you
you look at your watch

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