When the low heavy sky hangs down like a cover, you’re in Auvillar
Without your spouse. Dante’s on his way.
Ladies of a certain age compete for the clothes line.
Show off gleaming copper pots.
Tea and flan, wet wash. Dante’ s
not your concern.
Beatrice tends him,
Push past your fears, Francesca!
Seize the line while Madame snores.
Twist your fingers through Dante’s damp curls.
He’ll know what hit him.
Then run run run under grey skies.
You have feet, orthotics.
Sadness that rivals rain.
Can’t clasp your tidy life
If you’re in the wind