Ruffano

Swallows, squealing, race through the streets and squares of the Centro Storico.

Men sit outside bars on plastic chairs.
They watch and discuss. Not gossip (this distinction is very important).

A group of teens joke with a grey-haired woman who has broken the housewives’ curfew to come out and enjoy the evening.

Her house, I imagine, gleams less than others in her street. And dust mice reside in corners untouched between weekly sweeps. But she is happy to have discovered that there is more to life than cleaning.

Driving in Italy

The roads may be pockmarked
But most drive like Monza.
Accelerate, break
Take the racing line
Overtake, accelerate some more.

In their hearts all men here are Felipe Massa.
Except the old drivers in their rustic three-wheeled bees that buzz through the back lanes.
Always ensuring they stay
In the middle
And when navigating a roundabout cause others to pray
‘Not my way. Not my way. Not my way.’