Faith (poem #8)

It is easier, waiting for no one.
Ask me what Florence is like in the afternoon
and I will tell you about the strip from Via Nazionale
through the underground tunnel, where there are holes
in the ceiling which water drips through and the same carabinieri
watch me walked by everyday,
emergence only to be assaulted by umbrella salesmen,
even on the days when I have an umbrella or it’s not raining.
The store on the corner changes its display every couple of weeks:
the mannequins always emaciated and they usually wear purple.
Sometimes a man is reproducing masterpieces using sidewalk chalk.
Sometimes an old man plays the violin.
Sometimes gypsies gather and sit on the steps of Santa Maria Novella;
even the gypsies have someone they are waiting for.
I passed by a bicycle store everyday and didn’t realize it until two days ago.
I take the slow route on days I am delaying going back home and days
when I hope to be waiting without waiting at all. Waiting with coincidence
is what bumping into someone on the street should be called.
I take the slow route everyday.

Ask me what Florence is like from the hours from four to six
and I will tell you about the different colors of sheets that I’ve had.
My favorite were the ones with the imperfect pastel polka dots
with the stripped pastel pillow. None of them match the green and red striped
comforter or the red, white, and black plaid blanket I put over the top
when it got too cold. I would tell you about the insides of my eyelids;
but you know what that looks like.

When I was waiting I could tell you what Florence looked like at night.
Too many people and all of them looked like they didn’t know where they were going.
Once I got stopped by two English boys asking me where to find a disco.
I must have looked like I knew where I was going.
I told them to go straight and take a left at the next big street they went to.
Often I would pass large groups of men and the key was to look straight forward
and pretend not to speak whatever language they were speaking to you,
because after all I was waiting. Waiting is terrible alone, when all those people
who don’t know where they are going are staring at you. When you realize
how many people have the same haircut. The drunk girls that sidle up to drunk boys
and somehow I always have the clarity to label them as ugly, but when you are waiting
everyone is ugly, everyone has a blemished face, a big nose, and giant grips of love handles. But when you are waiting, you become the penultimate flaw. Waiting like
in Santa Maria Novella, as if you are worth less.