Can carry a tune in a bucket—
Have him come to
And see what he’s up against—
Hear the street performers soar
With voices like eagles,
Not the waddling pigeons
That flutter and beg for bread.
Dinner theater has never been better—
Pasta in an umbrella’s shade
With free concerts in the square,
Magicians and dancers and standing ovations—
Is that a homeless man?
He must have paid for lessons
At some point in his life,
For he is skilled at the recorder
And worth more than the coins
Tossed in his case like the wishing well
Has its share of performers—
A woman approaches me
In ancient robes and tall hair,
Black and curled, like mine—
“Your hair is lovely,” she says to me,
“Does your slave girl do it for you?
Hours she spent perfecting my locks—
A worthy servant, she is.”
Little does she know
I am my own slave girl
At the mercy of hair so dense
The only style permitted
Under its tyrannical regime
Is short and curly.
The crows, specifically
—The sacred pool of
Once thought to have healing powers,
Belongs to the ducks,
And the pigeons that bathe in its shallow ends.
How you tempt me with your gift shop
And its lethal-looking souvenirs:
A wooden sword replica—
Try getting that through airport security!
I guess a dagger will have to do—
Smaller, less threatening, obviously a toy—
Though it’s poor compensation
For a sword enthusiast such as myself.
A mug may be an all-too common souvenir,
Sold at every gift shop under the sun,
But this one looks like pottery clay spun at the wheel,
With a replica relic in place of a logo—
Proof of where I’ve been
And fitting to a fancy spot of tea.
Italian for lunch, Italian for dinner—
Hopefully repetition will not breed contempt.