Salvatore Difalco

Buon Giorno, Stupid

The opera of my dreams continues till dawn,
when the final aria resounds in my braincase.
Look out the window: strange pale faces flash by
and I wonder where industry prods them.
Up goes the window and I cry, “Why go on
with this race you can only win as worm food?”
Hard to watch besuited men and women
hoofing it double time to the blank pages
of their remaining stories: presently microwaves
ripple across time and space and penetrate
my skull. This is why I need to sing now,
why I feel compelled to sing the last aria
of my dreams. La gente sosta e mira …
No one turns to wave or wish me well;
my singing impresses only birds, trilling
back full-bosomed, pumped as hell.
Breakfast is a soft blood orange
leaking over my chest and the floor.
This is like visiting Sicily at Christmas.
Or like tasting sunlight sweetened
with honey and plasma: come listen
one last time, come listen one last time
my love, before the window closes.
E la bellezza mia tutta ricerce in me . . .