La Strada

We always seemed to go to the sea in sharp weather.

I remember Massimo driving us to Ostia.

Flying down the tree lined road to the deserted beach.

In a sandy town we ate scampi, the only customers

in an enormous room before the gray of the sea.

Today in this other empty town I arrive first.

Open the shutters protecting the front door.

I began to worry when you were late,

bits of road with no shoulders or guard rails.

Here I am, older and more careful at this ocean,

but you still travel with me. Perhaps

when I return inland I will search for the film

I shot all those years ago -- the jerky road -- 16 mm images

the poplars flying by and Massimo grinning,

laughing, telling us things in Italian we did not understand

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