Dream of Harlequin

by Marie Sheppard Williams

 

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.