Bologna is the color
of its mother
pasta, ragù:
sienna,
simmered scarlet,
because Siena is another shade,
another train,
and Bologna’s palette
is its palate
on tongues
and feet
and souls who seek.
 
Porticoed, colonnaded,
this fantasy of faded
sauce
takes the shape of an entire city—
place like palace,
layered like lasagna.
A red carpeted capital
winds and climbs
and crisps.
 
Your city doesn’t glow
in the ways known
to the rest of your country;
instead it flushes,
blushes,
for the blur of October sunsets
and Sunday afternoons.
 
How can one place
evoke so many tastes
and timelines:
antiquity, history
youth that acts like yeast,
letting bygone eras rise,
reviving the dormant with a reason to live?
 
How can modern baubles
bubble
against the seams
of the future,
generations to come,
while the city’s past ages like Lambrusco:
sparkling
darkening,
neatly bottled;
dribbling onto tablecloths
and shirt cuffs,
staining skin,
dripping down throats,
feeding on the frenzy
of fleeting
thirst.
 
Here, history fizzes.
Palimpsest’s bliss
glows tipsy.