Old Men From Italy

Kevin Irie

They stand on College Street,
penned in by municipal pavement,
no campo, no piazza to carry their voices
back to the Old World.
Language, the sole import
that travels easily.

Memory is a shadow that follows them home,
a shadow falling from groves of olives,
chestnuts you can actually eat.
Look how their hands sweep the air
as if somehow the could banish the cold
and clear a space for the sun to shine
from that time
to this place.

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6

Kevin Irie's works copyright © to the author.