Bella Roma

Bella Roma
Wayfarers, Autumn 2013

A tram grinds its descent into town,
everything is spent.

The fruit sellers lower their vast umbrellas,
load up a van doomed to purgatory,
illegally parked, the chassis
at an odd angle to the road,
like it is sinking.

I know my kind,
they are not here.
Everywhere I look
wet election posters
curl over on crooks or
lazy xenophobes with big
cheek bones gazing into
a cleaner future.

This city is under the knife,
out cold on a slab of marble,
dreaming of bread and circuses,
smothered by cool surgeons
and dapper anaesthetists.

‘Do you really think she’ll pull through?’
Survival instinct fled, left you in a coma,
wake when everything is new,
I’ll be bedside, Bella Roma.