Jaunty beat on the bridge,
Gabriele is harping on the kazoo,
his magic hands binding
passerby with the sound that
echoes against yellowed Tuscan walls
and out across the Arno.

Bewitched body recognizing
the communal melody
of a song I have never heard.

His wordless vocals barrage my ears
with pictureless images
of the sheer audacity of life.
Imploring age-old questions;
his utterance echoes Petrarchan sonnets and
the cinema of Fellini.
what a miracle to exist alone
mulling on the mystifying thoughts of millions before me,
yet surrounded by a hundred souls,
all warm and swaying in scirocco winds
that annotate the sky with Sahara sand and Dante,
staining the air as orange-hazy as aperol spritz.
Sleepless nights and fruitless days,
tossing coins in the hat as payment for time
that is here, yet already past.