ROAMING RUINS
‘on the streets of Rome the roads are paved with desire’
In a small cafe in Rome
sit I in my latte espresso,
bonjourno.
The streets are hills
where all roads lead.
A gas pump
pumps the smell of petrol
young girls in their skin tights
old men dream, cry
reshape a future
no longer theirs.
In business they give nothing away
the begging is stealing
and the prize vanishes
once your hungry fingers
touch
a sparkling light invisible.
Where do the signals
of the hustling bustling strada
direct the lost and wandering
without direction?
Without stars or visions
or love
or money?
Without the future of an anchored past?
Without a cigarette to hold
between two fingers.
Without smoke to hide
heated passions
never found.
Buzzing boys on scooters
and girls on motorcycles
swarming worker bees
pace the afternoon air
directing the incessant
active backdrop stage of noise
for ice cream eating aging beauties
tongue licking spinning ice cream cones
spinning vanilla upper lip memories
of once best nights satisfied
yet even now
never happy.
Where did your gas pump stop spinning?
When did it stop pumping
fairy tale novels romance?
Holy sister keeps the steeple bells ringing
where all else pulses silent
hushed by the smiles of bright blue skies
turned dark and cloudy black.
Where did your pump stop pumping?
When did your wars become death star battles?
Why has the diamond sky never lit your way?
The graffiti walls do not conceal any answers.
The petrol smell pump
keeps every designer baby carriage rolling.
The pulsating sirens gift only more questions.
What does the business meeting want?
Love.
What does the endless night desire?
Love.
What does the greed of possession refuse to give?
Love.
Where do you buy your next human touch?
From pigeons lonely for the next crumb.
***************************************************
f. j. llorente
Rome, Italy
April 7, 2017
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 