Via Tiburtina, Rome
3 am. In the apartment above
Our Medea sound-alike chainsaws sleep
And silence. A voice to die from!
Her man somewhere at its rim,
Pitching in his centesimo's worth,
Knocking nocturnes to smithereens.
Courtesy of Helios Airways,
O for a chariot to magic them
Away. Only in this play a scene's
Got stuck, its author as if long since
Vanished with a headache: We listen,
Forced albeit walled-off audience
While the darkness throngs with wrongs
In direst stereo; lacking a theologian,
The agon goes on and on…