Poetry

The Immigrant Barrista
the fantasy of a fallen man

If I could make myself
whole again,
I’d land in the soft net
of a foreign tongue.
Serve espresso and pastries
to early risers
of an Alpine town.
Paint through summer
afternoons, awaiting the fresh
white pad of winter. You
would zip through the square
in the latest shoes & sleek glasses
on a shiny red Vespa. Together
we’d prove passion hard
currency in the authentic world.
And, like cats soaking up sun
in the ancient square,
we’d be serenely rich
with it, owning it
by the arm, ear, eye
and mouthful, even though
we’d know no amount
could purchase a safe
landing for me or fix
my grip on that ladder.

March, 2005
© J. Asquini

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