Italian Morning

They wait perfumed in fresh clothes, The kids, at the top of the stairs; We’ll be back by evening Auntie, says the mother, C’mon or we’ll miss the corriera. They troop off down the stairs, Cross a courtyard into the whining of A carpenters lathe, And crunching of gravel, Past Mr.B’s house, with his collection of Rare coins; Exit a dank passage and enter a warm Ochre world. They greet C in his grocery, which Smells of cinnamon and washing powder; Pass the old mill, where legend said Ghosts roam at night, Finally reaching the bubbling piazza. The corriera announces its arrival, The kids don’t care, they’ve got their Spiderman Comics to think about. By sundown they were back, weary, Sleeping on each others shoulder, Pity it was all over; And the kids dream of Spiderman.