The Unseen Drama Unfolding in Cesare’s Piazza: What Everyone’s Whispering About
Cesare street-bellows
above the bells;
Red wine has reddened his tonsils.
His blackened lungs tarred by Camels.
He’s the local lunatic
around whom stories circulate:
Of a life ruined all too quick.
Of a foreign legion escapade.
Were his dice destined bad
playing fortunes dicey game?
Or did he risk all he had
with no-one but himself to blame?
Now he gobs, the gobshite fool,
Fumbling phlegm from his chin.
An underdog is nothing new
nor the in-crowd who outcast him.

My first year in Italy was in Monza in 1992-93, and I wrote this poem about Cesare. I went back to Monza last week after 32 years. Met Roberta there who remembered Cesare who’s, not surprisingly, since died.


