Across the piazza from Duomo
people fidget like pigeons,
fixed on destination–Pisa, Firenze,
someplace beyond binario duo,
somewhere other than home.
Blind man in a white shirt,
bolo tie, dress shoes, puffs
a cigar stub, waving a wand
to match his crisp cadence
and patent leather posture.
Women urge their mothers
arm-in-arm around the promenade,
purses swinging in late afternoon.
Children play among ancient shrubs.
Men on benches knit their narratives.
Shutters make shadow wings
on yellow and salmon stucco.
Beneath sheets and lingerie,
phrases linger above slate streets
pocked by commerce, pageants, warfare.