In keeping with the unpredictability's,
and the many hungers of this post-industrial home,
I'd practice my harmonica,
mostly during the summer months.
Jazzed up like a Brunello Grappa, whilst playing,
to celebrate the lushness of Lombardic slopes.
Squatted beneath sticky grapevines,
enduring the thunderstorms of the Trentino Valley,
I would hum a shaky tune,
sometimes sound a doubtful eye,
once recollecting, the early scents of a peach orchard.
Dazzling, the intense sunlight,
with afternoon tea and biscuits from Milano,
sharpens the contours of things,
but whites out the shifting footsteps of a slow waiter.
A man here, still looking for a room.