Saturday in Bologna

by Francesca Del Moro

At the bus stop of number Eleven
I fight against exhaustion.
I have been awake for a long time,
did many things, shopping,
even a German lesson.
From the Pincio staircase
the subjects of Christ
are shouting like the Baptist.
I find them sweet.
By my side
a guy who is already drunk
is screaming an incoherent speech
and looks like a prophet.
To see someone holding a beer
at eleven in the morning
is always quite disturbing.
We do not introduce
clashing elements
in this morning scene:
we pretend we do not hear
neither them nor him
and move away a bit.
We are well-mannered.
We scream at the right moment,
at talk-ins, demonstrations,
or at evening shows.
At work the bosses scream
and we scream all the time
to our family at home.
We do not disturb,
we are a well-oiled device.