The wagon has stopped in the shade
of a grove
of writhing olive trees.
In Italy, this is, 1642 or
thereabouts. All around,
doing this and that, feeding
the dog, whatever, are members
of a little troupe of commedia
dell 'arte players.
Harlequin is there
and Columbine
and all the others.
Harlequin is the boss.
He owns the wagon.
It's his show.
I sit on the wagon's
lowest step, and just above me
satin clad and diamond spattered
sits Harlequin.
His knees are a rest for my head
which is weary to death.
I am content.
I am happy.
I think I love the harlequin:
he is so pretty, he is like a
wonderful toy. But I am
a visitor, nothing
here is mine.
I ask him: Can I stay?
Silent, Harlequin
bends, draws a circle
around my mouth
with his finger.