Piazza Ognissanti

                                                                         June 10, 2019
                                                                            Florence, Italy


All Saints Square. An altogether bare
affair. No saint in sight. The
odd well-healed guest hovers limply near
Mercedes Rovers, black, sleek, eager
at the starting gate, their drivers taut,
anticipating action. Sterile,
grand hotels eye us old women haught-
ily, we crouching feral on their
planters in the heat, the Arno, pea
stagnant, offstage backdrop. My back spurns
Baroque church façade. I fail to see
its massive doors creep shut. Is that rain?
Course not. Spilled lament. And suffering
sighs from long-exiled, long-dust wool monks.
Upstart Hercules is entwining
bronze lion ever, spineless green chunk.
Diane Martin

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Diane Martin would be pleased to hear them.