Perfection

PERFECTION


I miss the dark courtyard, its old,
warped wheel
From oxen's cart, the large, green Chianti
Straw-covered bottles. I do miss the stones
Now sprawled in weeds to turn gold-green,
that once,
A castle. I do miss the short waiter
Who danced with a tall, cardboard Marylin.
When I had all this, it was imperfect.
It was a long time ago, but today
This town in Italy, whose name I don't
Remember is now the most perfect place.
As I sit here in my imperfect present.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Writer's Eyes