They wait perfumed in fresh clothes,
The kids, at the top of the stairs.
We'll be back by evening, Auntie - says the mother.
Come on or we'll miss the corriera!
They troop off down the stairs,
Across the courtyard into the whining of
A carpenters lathe,
And the crunching of gravel,
Past Mr.B's house, with his collection of
Through a dank passage and into a warm
They greet C. in his grocery, which
Emanates a smell of cinnamon and washing powder,
Then proceed along the old flour mill - look
If a body is floating in the water -
Finally reaching the bubbling piazza.
The corriera announces its clanging arrival;
The kids don't care they've got their Spiderman
Comics to think about.
By sundown they were back, weary,
Sleeping on each others shoulder.
Pity it was all over,
And the kids dream of Spiderman.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Italian Morning. by Jay Alexander )
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