Emilia In Romagna

Emilia In Romagna Somewhere a lost little girl Is crying in her bedroom closet Because she can’t hear Her mama Moving about anymore She can see dim shapes Mama stored stuff in here Luggage scarfs tennis racquets Croquet mallets Boxes of old photographs Useless Rubbish Apparently not water or food She can hear the ancient Transistor radio Mama always kept on Pavarotti is proclaiming His love for another faulty insecure woman In an opera that makes As much sense as this Her disconsolate glissandos Ravaged juddered weeping Rival the maestro For now Until later