Postcards from Italy
11 November. I need a good joke, or at least for someone to pull a funny face. Couldn’t find the pensione last night. Found myself here. Woke up all wrong. There are two crows preening on what used to be a baptismal. All the best churches are roofless, have grass growing up through the floor. Listen to me, some kind of authority. But I know what I like. That counts for something. This morning I was counting my toes and came up one short. I’m hoping it turns up here, perhaps on the altar. Maybe it’s what the crows are pecking at. If I had a glass eye, I’d chuck it at those crows, make them quit their squawking. If I had a boat. If I had a yard of silk. If I had a book. If I had a child. Look now –beyond the frame– the sky’s starting to clear, bits of blue underneath all that black and white and gray. In a roofless church. Losing my toe, stubbing my faith. Listen now, one of those crows has a good joke. One of them, a funny face.
