Piazza Pilo

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."

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