the tile lined roof on the last villa
of the petty nobles of this town
sags like the jaw line of a matron.
her voice sings out
a spinster’s peevish tweet:
(distant falling daughter of whatever local saint–
though aren’t we all?)
shames her poor dog.
nothing to do but go mad with barking;
infinite empty rooms.
I may be a falling (fallen?!) daughter, but I’m not sure I came from a saint! Lovely poem and picture!
Almeno, we’re all falling (sly reference to lauri anderson song). Saints are often quite falling/failing…at least as much as the rest of us: this is our local one, such as he is.
A very rich and challenging poem, Bonnie.
Thank you Brad, glad that you enjoyed it.
Oh, I really like this one Bonnie. I mean I like them all, but this one does it for me. I can SEE this poem.
Someday you have to come and see the real thing :-).
Very elegant and classical. It reflects it’s subject perfectly. “Nothing to do, but go mad with barking.” I know the feeling well.
Thanks Paul, I treasure the compliment. Something about the shifting of the season seems to set off both the people and the dogs…