(Capo d’Orlando, Sicily)
The song of the nearby jackhammer,

removing cancerous concrete – the salt

the sea –  is lackadaisical but I prefer it

to the relentless disco beat at this cafe

just outside the sweltering Thursday market.

Am I interested to see how many delights can

be confected from sugar? My waistline speaks

volume. And there’s air-con and espresso.

Maria awoke inspired, recalling her vision

of a desired rug as if, overnight, rugs

mysteriously became revelatory,

like those cornetti con nutella.

Just as a Sicilian man would know how

to renew concrete, a Sicilian woman knows

how to get the best price on a market rug

that already is incredibly cheap because

slaves attached to machines on a continent

she’ll never visit, even if she wins Lotto,

make temptingly cheap imitation Persian rugs.

Sicilians, hardened by successive invasions

before the current retail one, have weathered

bullying from every direction. The curse

of being geographically well-endowed.

Everybody wants to screw you but that’s

just history, today is market day and merchants

crave cash before siesta. Jackhammer’s lament

peters out and now there’s a rug that must be

shouldered to our foreign car with peeling paint  –

    the salt    the sea.