Each of us, in turn, has to answer, in one word,
the question: What are you feeling?

In December no less, when it gets dark at four
and this classroom’s been double-booked.

Another band of politicized marginals
prowls restless in the corridor

If I could go back to my birthplace,    Lanciano, wander all day up and down the corso, stop by the cathedral built on the ruins of a Roman prison and pray,                                              if I could

Is it because they can’t tell the Casa Grecque from the Cabane Grecque? Because they drown in buckets of oversalted feta, or they have lost their ways through white tablecloths and folded napkins returning from the restrooms?