You Are In Assisi and I’m Not
There is something in the Umbrian landscape
that pumps my desire to learn to play the lute,
attempt a time travel to spend a weekend with Giotto,
a painted halo around both of our heads.
You would have been like Francis: divesting
all your possessions, walking into the village naked,
a bird on one shoulder and another in your hair.
I would have held fast to my meager hoard, a bourgeois
to the bone, wearing a revolutionary beret for show.
I hope that among the basilicas, castles and vineyards
you’ve encountered angels traveling the roads
and had your theological questions prepared to strike.
And perhaps during a long interlude of wine drinking
you were able to get them to spill out the definitive
definition of love, the best reason there could be
as to why you are in Assisi and I’m not.