Listen to Rosanna Warren reading “Piazza Pilo.” The low stone and stucco wall opens in gaps; you can pass
through, cross diagonally, or meander
within; you can sit on one of
eight slatted benches under elms and read the paper, you
can sit on the wall and chat or
listen to the radio if it’s night and you’re young, you can walk
your dog: the park accepts
all, its pebbles crunch under business shoes as under
sneakers ambling, the dog-walker’s
loiter, trudge of an elderly woman laden
with plastic grocery bags, the full-tilt
charge of one boy chasing
another. If you’re crippled
or retarded you can sit here and the elms
don’t rush their friendliness, they are
just poking into frowsy leaf, it’s April, they
seem happy to have you, so are the
old German shepherd and her terrier friend, so are
the grayish men with newspapers: you
can throne in your wheelchair and take the sun, or hunch
on the wall and mumble. The park
knows how to receive, how to
let go. Its puddles sink
(it rained last night) slowly out of
sight. If you’re sick, aging, in love,
the park shows you how to follow the score,
to keep the beat. The dance is
larger. Nightingales pelt out songs
at dawn where last night’s trash
spills from the corner basket. You could
let someone kiss you, slowly:
you could open your mouth to surprise, a
gift the gods
grant with other gifts: the staggering heart,
ashes on the tongue, long patience at slow
breakage. Prayer. The word
“unhealed.” The word “farewell.”