La Dolce Vita

It's nearly 4 in the morning

When I slip through my front door and tip toe to my bedroom.

A bottle of bubbly pignoletto and two glasses of red in, 

Much has been said - many a bean has been spilled.

Two hafus sway precariously on a step,
In a piazza,
Somewhere in the city centre

Perhaps it is the shared mix

Perhaps it is the bubbly

But somehow I feel I can wear my own skin,

A celebratory evening has snowballed into a great discorso not quite alla italiana
[but a bit alla-everything]

A snowball of our theories, still modest and in the making,
(topped with our worries and our doubts, blooming in time for spring)

The worries and doubts of two twenty-something hybrids,
Caught somewhere between two continents,
On the buckle of a boot

A great big snowball on a mild mid-may evening

It's nearly 4 in the morning

When I wipe the remainders of the day off my face,

And as I slip into my blue boxers

Pulling my striped pyjama top over my tired head

I heave a great big sigh,
About as big as the moon

Sometimes you just need to be understood;

Your worries and stories and jokes, all of those,

The dialect you spill from the corner of your lips,
The label sewn on to the tips of your toes

The one listing the materials that make you complete,
(the one that says "only hand washing" - "no tumble drying please")
The one next to the roots sprouting on the soles of your feet.

His first talk that he refers to can be found here.

Buona notte