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| Swirl 24 x 18 cm - collage/acrylic on canvas board |
BARDIC RECOLLECTIONS
Maybe we
should permit
memory to
make us stand
up on our hind
legs and bark
for a treat,
e.g., thought I was being
funny and
asked my doctor to prescribe
a pizza but
none of that deep
dish Yankee
crap, only slices of
the real
thing would do, a chewy sour-dough
crust
enriched by squirts of virgin olive oil
pressed out
in the hills behind Ventimiglia.
That was
the trigger. You and I had some
face time
in those hills or further down
the boot,
in Camogli, I think, fire flies in the wood
near the
Ristorante, Pavarotti’s creamy voice
drifting in
from the kitchen along with
two plates
of ravioli in walnut sauce. I know
it sounds
too good to be true
or too bildungsbürgertumlich
to be good
but I can
top that: after Dolce and espresso
we could
hear a nightingale’s solo and I swear
there was Shelley
heading out to the sea
that would kill
him, Keats already dead and
Byron lifting
Shelly’s heart from the fire
in which
they burned his body on the beach
then I automatically
stopped barking and nurse Anna
handed me my
prescription for blood pressure pills.
