Disjecta Membra

Naples Outskirts, May 3.

Two women, young and older, sit across;
a couple, one is pretty one less so.
“And do we have to go? Are we his friends?”
(Inaudible) she checks her phone and nods.
“His birthday… maybe something we should get?”
Her phone again “Would this thing be ok?”
“It’s fine. Don't leave me with him please. I can’t
imagine anything I'd have to say.”
A slouching silence. Laughter. City noise.
My book —Durkheim: ‘see social facts as things’—
views incest as a puzzle men must solve;
a common cause where spirits intervene.
Graffiti: M+F inside a heart
has lost its lustre and began to fade.
A swastika corrected to a blot
stays visible despite all efforts made.
A shirtless boy approaches asks for change;
we talk, he lies politely, tells me of
his home, his friends, his travels, and his days.
I give him what I have and he moves on.
I rise and check my watch. Mid afternoon.
We still have spring. Some flowers are in bloom.

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