Piazza Di Santa Marta
I share my outside table,
my glass of wine,
with dust-winged moths
drawn toward guttering candles –
the bar’s front window
catches my flat image,
framed by floral, twisted iron.
I glimpse my facsimile.
Bleached features, leeched of hope.
My lime-green dress drapes insults
over creased flesh and creaking bones.
Then, tectonic plates shift time.
My old lover happens by
with sightless eyes. His silver cane
taps apart curtained memories
My dizzied pulse quickens,
fancy flares again. Invisible, I gaze,
through billowed smoke,
see once more the twilit windowpane.
I am caught. Reflected, smudged –
a fey impression of my younger self.