By Piero Filpi
Above Palermo’s twinkling, bright city,
A quick stroll from Piana’s chiesa,
Will bring you to the home I once lived in.
The walls were this bloody color she chose
Before she left. Was it a blue? Maybe
A cream? Who knows. The walls are probably
Chipping; windows have probably been smashed
And left shattered. The porch must look awful,
Destroyed by rotten insects of death and blight.
It wasn’t always this way, you know. The old
Memories on the porch, with those windows
Wide open, and that wood that would soon be
Stepped on by those high heels I bought her last
Spring. The walls, the windows, the porch—how could
I bear to see them anymore? I wish I
Locked the door when I had the chance, but now
My home withers and cracks under sunlight.
There’s a sign on the door, it reads: chiuso.