Postcard from Milan
Just arrived, 10 p.m., searching alone for city-center Duomo and Metro stops – graffiti everywhere – walk and walk saying street names out loud, Italian accented, so I can find my way back to my little one-star hotel – stop for espresso and pastry at a street vendor, check out Duomo, hundreds of carved spire fingers all reaching to heaven in sad earthly fashion – so many people, more and more as it gets later and later, now midnight, all ages – stop to buy Italian Toscano brand cigars, smoke, remember my great-grandfather chewing unlit black butt – along narrow street back to hotel undistinguished facades hide luxurious garden courtyards – I spy one of these courtyards as a couple kisses goodnight at a giant door, half-opened – couples make-out in cars, this wonderful spring! oh, the kissing nature of this city! oh, the long-nosed face of Italy! – the language I can’t understand surrounds me, awakens my childhood, makes me smile in salty ocean waves of Italian vowels – taste grandma’s meatballs on my 10-year-old tongue.
rain on concrete
black loafers and red high heels