Tuscany

 

What a wonderful day it had been.

I sat with a few newfound friends,

an accidental meeting between us,

the non-painters on the tour, 

way, way, way high up

in a small Tuscan village,

in a tiny home-made-restaurant.

Bel canto music purred

In hidden speakers.

The dishes looked like canvasses.

peasant food made fabulous.

I wasn’t hungry, so I passed.

I wasn’t thirsty, either,

but I drank the wine.

We talked,

then we walked,

and talked some more,

about nothing, mostly.

I bought a small painting

from a small studio,

for a small number of Euros.

It hangs now in a small corner of our home,

and in a big part of my memory. 

We rode down

to our Montecatini hotel

in a bright red funicular

and never once thought 

to sing Volare.

What a wonderful day it had been.

A Leo’s Tastes

He likes Suzanne Vega rhyming and Cedar Walton timing, he drinks coffee in the morn, breakfast blend, just now born; he grows hair upon his face, with a lion’s manely grace, and talks with hands upon his hips, discussing dreamed of trips; tips generously, he does, loves all nurses just because; sometimes happy, sometimes sad, all injustice makes him mad, goes on walks which fit the bill, mostly sidewalks, up his hill; he eats cupcakes for the taste, thinks most diets are a waste, lives to read and poem, now calls San Diego home; just an ordinary guy, not too boastful, seldom shy, he makes casseroles for dinner, not much caring about thinner; he’s been leader of his troops, the umami in the soups, foreign films get a look, he enjoys a good book; loves tall trees, names his birds, sings the oldies, have you heard? He likes Bob Dylan rhyming and Marcel Marceau miming, doesn’t care to be well-dressed, but he knows that he is blessed; that’s him, the real deal, your good friend, Teo Leo.