He’ll be hovering over them, gazing into those
Tuscan cauldrons by now. No mere affairs of the mouth,
these, more slicing time with the gods
at the altar of the garlic-dressed bean.
A flourish of fennel, a dash of James Baldwin,
a kiss of balsamic, a twist of life,
patience cajoling magic deadly deep
within the eighth liberal art.
A week later he flies home, leaving behind
a seasoned wedge of his soul. In Cleveland,
Chianti sales triple as they queue for him,
for his mouthfuls of heaven.
(Firenze, giugno 2007)
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