Born under a Bad Sign

Just back from Sicily where I've paddled the coast
with a WWF crew, amongst whom, three girls, me
expected to choose one of them. At lunch, 'I'll play
mother,' says a tranquil Buddhist, 'counsel you.'
Leaning close to my ear, she whispers 'Chiara',
her preferita, who, the day before, asked if I knew
what anorexia was. I have no talent for confession
myself, according to our group leader, 'un enigma'.
Instead, each evening, I leave excerpts of poetry
on the notice-board. Just back home to Bologna,
the Red City, governed by Moloch, or should be,
my housemates' marijuana plant has all but died,
grown so dry, with them away, and no one to tend it.
Conducting a funeral oration on the patio where they
used to sit up half the night drinking wine, playing
cards, smoking. One time we took vespas to Il Covo,
a club I'd often meant to visit. It was closed, showed
no sign of ever being open, a solitary ragazzo out
back told us to return on Sabato. Or how, alone,
I'd climbed for hours, though what I'd climbed
I don't recall, to find a church. But this was early on.
Under the town, a river flows, quite Stygian, and
they've had their share of Satanists, a friend noted.
Evenings, I like to ride my bicycle out to the park,
watch another day, neither good nor bad, vanish.