March 8, 2013
A Sicilian face peering out from under a coppola.
A river of cars streaming past his eyes.
Angelus bells clanging.
But he sits calmly waiting for the bus.
Until the americana approaches.
“I have a cousin in Florida!” he says. “My name is Emanuele.”
His skin is cracked as a Sicilian riverbed in summer.
“Give my greetings to America.”
“OK!” I say, because I can think of nothing better. “Buona serata!”