The Quarter

From the level crossing
Where the metro train goes south
And along the city wall
With the smell of oil under press

Up past the old Bohemien
And the queues for little horns
And ice-cream sorbets
We meet at the bottom of the stairs
In the warm night air
Where your neighbour,
The ex-con and cousin to
The horse-mad Don, Savinucc’
Hangs in his shorts from the high balcony
And surveys the quarter
Where appear to spin
In the harness wheel of the Don’s sulky
Exploding firecrackers,
Wheezing mopeds and backfiring exhausts
How could one fail to hear
The fantastical whisperings
Abroad the complacent streets
Of a southern Italian town?