Finding the little pleasures of Florence.
cigarette butts for church crumbs slabs of armor stammering in the statue of a bearded man pigeons as his eyebrows feathery hair growth on his bald head what is it like to have people shoe you away but you keep neck-nodding yes strutting on steps squabbling in stone what is it like to be that small surrounded by church choirs chiming like a baby crawling through the San Lorenzo nave Mamma trying to wheel a stroller between cracks of centuries her baby boy running after four pigeons after the forgotten pacifier bouncing up and down in his mouth like a kazoo spooning strawberry yogurt; takes a bite for herself “Eduordo!” but he keeps running “Eduordo!” he keeps running after the four pigeons “Eduordo— Ciao!” suddenly he stops breathless how a hello can cut how a hello can shatter escape Yogi Bear’s t-shirt grin frozen mid-goof “Ciao Mamma! Ciao!” and I realize there is nothing like a little boy answering his mother’s “Eduordo— Ciao!” nothing like being whisked away prematurely from the edge of a wing how even a pigeonhole revels in a box dreaming of flight
