Brisbane — Lucia Brandoli

You told me that men laugh in four tempos,

in simple tempos, that men, all of them,

are like basketballs – and you’re right, indeed

– and women are like soccer-balls. And if

you pay attention

they laugh in three, indeed,

breathless, discarding, losing

ground under their feet.

And these days I feel like a tennis-ball

on a football table–motionless, yellow

and totally uncomfortable. Like at the Monk,

where nobody wants

to play tennis-table

for fear

of loosing or ruin his status around

a Burberry trench

with so much strain

built up. And then

I wonder why

the hell he get

the socialist badge.

Rome today, Brisbane tomorrow.

Eight hours after, eight hours before,

together, it’s no big deal:

two months are not ages,

neither a year.

It’s winter even there, but only at night,

while you piss outside

at three in the morning

in your pajama

looking at Three

Sisters.

A special thanks to Federica Bacchelli