doesn’t like my hat. The guard
in the Cathedral orders me to take it off,
my balding head is cruelly exposed
to His minute examination. Everywhere
in low-cut tops and baggy shorts
flash their Minoltas at the frescoed saints
leave unjudged. Once the sanctuary was approached
one day each year by a single trembling priest,
certain death the price for anyone
careless enough to touch the convenantal ark
same Lord God of
whose dreadful jealousy must now be satisfied
rage at my straw hat, that cost
twelve thousand lire from a Pisan market stall.
First of five poems in the sequence Postcards from Florence.
© Godfrey Rust, email@example.com. See here for details of permissions for use.