My mother has never lost
her faith. See how she wears
her new striped hat courtesy of
an ex, who is, step by step
in the background, painfully
downing glasses of wine.
What color are the stripes?
Is the hat actually colorful?
Not like the rest of her out
fit, upon which there seems
to be a ‘painted’ Italian vista,
which, from my perspective
looks to be just outside of Firenze.
Two tall walls go breast to sleeve,
leaving an admirer, if one is able
to lower their gaze from that
very loud hat, the ability to
peer through what would be,
without the artistic license
of the shirt’s designer, more
brick wall as seen from inside,
or out, a very tall wall, the color
of brick so particular to this part
of Italy. What can be viewed instead,
‘through’ what would be Mom’s
neck down via her sternum to her
navel is a terrain-slanted Italian
countryside with a few tables replete
with umbrellas splayed indicscriminately
but no doubt next to some unseen
trattoria, and in the distance a church
with an extremely high belfry. Today, one
might just imagine those bells ringing. But
here in California, we have barrels of wine,
instead. With which, me, my elegant mom
and my motley crew are more than okay.
