wind

there’s something to be said this morning

about the stillness of the trees;

a windless morning, a breezeless morning which

speaks its language through a glance.

the trees are the chalkboard of the wind,

telling us what we need to know of where it’s going,

of what it’s up to; should we re-think our hats.

but last night...

last night the warning came over the smartphone:

expect gale-force winds with estimated gusts of 40 knots, and

under the darkness of cover, I considered glass, the morning coffee

set-up of the balcony, about tomato plants potted in fragile terracotta.

there's a sense of helplessness with a gale-force wind.

one can’t shovel it away to an unoccupied space; I thought of isolation,

of darkness, I dreamed of uncontrolled flight.

                   -proof of the illusive Octavio Pieroni-

Octavio was baptized Octavio Pieroni;

his bride, baptized Pauline Giambastino, became

Pauline Pieroni, in Lucca, Italy in the late 18 hundreds.

after traveling to the New Country, periodic anniversary gatherings

were held eventually leading to a time when most nuptial celebrations

seemed to be received as impositions pressed upon the aging principals;

this time with Octavio and Pauline posing stiffly for snapshots

under a grapevine's tangled canopy with a backyard view of bundled,

rusted automobiles, each hulk older than the one pressed above it,–– 

each, once the pride of the open road, now stacked like.. 

–– like what, were these jalopies stacked? like pancakes? like slabs of history?

like cons of Purgatory panting for a quick spot of God?  

it's I alone who can answer these questions.

so much of everything travels at my side only to die along with me.

                     the fight

the fight’s on television.

It’s pay to view, but I shelled-

out the funds in order to take a look.

a bout of welterweights

is on the card before the main event;

two heavyweights are vying

for the title left vacant by an

ousted rule-breaker.

heavyweight’s usually hit

then clutch then hit then clutch

the clutches pulled apart

by the aggravated bow-tied referee,

but welterweights swing away

and these two combatants do not disappoint.  

but through the ropes a young woman

sits ringside with a man twice her age, maybe more.

she cuts a delicate cloth in the midst

of the dance of violence.

I spot her periodically when the boxers

brawl at a point in the ring where the camera

makes her visible.

her face is wide-eyed and she

cringes when a direct hit is scored.

in the 5th of a scheduled 10,

she’s seen bouncing from her seat, screaming

between horror and ecstasy as one fighter lands

a right cross to the jaw then a left

hook to the chin of the dazed opponent

who unceremoniously crumbles the canvas,

and through the ropes, through the cadence

of the deliberate 10 count I can see her,

motionless, wide-eyed and watching.