Sunday coffee (ed.)

[Divina]

I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of self-awakenings). We are heroes,

brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn't really heroic, it's quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.

I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn't pray.
We missed our bus.

On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright
yellow background, reds and pinks.

(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words in a glance.
The music box is the sun,

the moon, all of the sky.
I've heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry

from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.

So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
are you crazy?

If you don't, maybe you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.

Or count the drops of coffee
spilled on a white tablecloth.
The men sitting in the cafe
start playing cards.