Mameli

I certainly got lost. The winding roads, and back alleys all leading to somewhere. Hard to really say lost I suppose when I only know a handful of places in this city marked by some sort memory. I walked through a narrow pocket that I had sauntered through last night with a bottle of red. I went down a darker shaded back alley, for a half block and saw a worn tanned man shooting junk into his toes with a tall bottle of Peroni at his side. I stepped back, put my head down, and then continued on. But in those few seconds I saw his eyes roll into his head, his soul raise to some God, and his heroine crippled body roll back onto the ancient steps where he sat. It wasn’t disgusting nor beautiful, it just was. I don’t know his world, and I barely even know my own.

Here I sit in this café with a tall bottle of Peroni at my side watching life roll, and the breeze reverberate by the passing Romans so beautiful that I could cry to the supposed heavens pounding my fists on the pavement wanting nothing.