The not completely finished is life

~ Picasso, 1957
 
Federico’s roofs reflect the moonlight

that slides into my living room and

at midday they reflect the blistering

heat onto the side of my house.
He was a bricklayer

dyes his hair black

and we argue in Italian:
It’s the trees, it’s the leaves.

His gutters are full of my jungle.

I am land conquistadors invaded,

the Amazon

full of hot man-eating orchids

tendrils and fronds that

weave their way into cerebral cortex.
I’m something Indian

with strange ways and stranger music –

the tom tom toming of drums

sweet smoke rises for ritual

dancers wet with sweat.
His land is sanitised

concrete and mowing has cleansed and blessed,

retirement has expanded his empire.

We argue over his drilling and sawing

this music is tireless, virile,

he is Picasso

sculpting the landscape

building workshops, carports, illegal extensions

roofing and roofing and re-roofing.
His terriers growl and bark at the fence line.

Anna, his wife, tells Cheeky, Bartolo and

what’s-its-name to shuddup.

Federico hammers nails into my head at ten at night

while their cat, Paloma

anglegrinds my cat out of my garden.