Ponte Vecchio

The ladies on diets
pocket the biscotti:
click shut their bags
over crisp white napkins.

Behind the ravaged
Sabine Women twisting,
she writes to him in blue:
sniffs, apologizes (again).

Out, behind her shoulder
the carnival mask moons
gold and vermilion
and her friend must have it.

I shoulder their tray:
try not to grudge the inadequate tip,
try to smile at the flowered
tourists passing by.

(c) Catherine Weaver 1995 All rights reserved.
BigWhiteBlockMuthaFuckaz

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