Not the thick lipped moor of
Milan’s finest attraction,
a come of age martyr
spear hoisted as briefcase.

Not the heavy breasted attendant,
plasma in hand,
wide-eyed on the readout,
half gazelle in caricature.

Native, do you remember
espied through rambling forest,
the clerk face-down and trembling,
the croupiers 45.

Sound out, this piecemeal variation
of concerto ala modes,
city lights and boardroom click-clack,
humming bird oration,

and confuse the twitch as grimace
for a random literary strata
of civilized buzzing
and din that settles in.