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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

A Porch in America

Antonio wondered where spring had gone.
He wondered if the houses missed him
in Sicily.
How the church looked at mass.
Did they ask, where is Antonio?
Where is Antonio?
Would the priest know?
Would someone tell him?
He is in America.
He misses the olive trees.
No one hears him singing.
He is in America and the village is gone.
The cranking wheels of the carts
are silent.

He is in America looking off
on a porch,
and his heart is breaking
for the air,
the smell,
the light,
the chatter of his beloved language.
The hot summer
with its blue mornings of fog
in the hills.
The taste of real wine.
The dress of the women.
Do they remember him?
Will he ever see them again?
Go back?

The money, the money.
Will there ever be enough?
Can he be young again?
Antonio cries.
He tastes the air.
Why was it so real there?
So full of dust and fragrance?
Ah! The vegetables, the fish,
the pasta with sun in it.
The yellow vanilla color.

He looks for Rosa.
Can she take him back?
Can they return together?
For a day, a week?
Sometime,
when everything is done.
When a little money is saved.
Oh, the taste of oil on the lettuce.
The savor of the sauces!
Ever again?
Antonio looks at the ground
and closes his eyes.
He is in Sicily where the sea ends.

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