Piera
Piera holds court on a red, plastic chair
outside Bar Emilio,whiskeying the days along.
Her handbag a trove of his letters
and their marriage photographs,
dressed only in black, she mourns a man still living.
And her old beauty still there,
sallow skin disguising alcohol’s ravages.
Sunblonded ponytail,
exquisite hands and a knowing smile,
she rides the memory trapeze,
thinking only of Mauro and their ten years.
In her apartment on Via Bertola
shopwindow mannequins take his place
in the bedroom, kitchen and livingroom,
each dressed in his discarded clothes.
Each night she cooks him pesto
pours a glass of his favoured vino patria,
reads his letters in the waiting.
Brushes out her hair, for he likes it that way,
drifts away with Gigli and Jack Daniels,
waltzing the weddingsuited model.
Her widowed sister and Mauro
seldom remember.
