On the street, which happens
to be in Milan, of course,
the youngish man, though
he doesn’t look at all Italian,
knows how to cut la bella figura.
He’s been to the barber, his short
white-blond hair perfectly cut and groomed,
blue eyes and smile too dazzling
for an addict of espresso.
He wears a crisp white shirt
and simple navy tie,
but it’s the jacket that pops:
short, utility cuts with pockets
and snaps, in bright olive,
open, casually thrown on
(or so it appears, even if it
took twenty minutes).
From one breast pocket dangle
sunglasses with tortoise frames;
the other’s adorned with a silk
handkerchief, bright blue to
match his eyes, patterned
with white flowers. He’s talking,
walking with a friend,
who’s also well-dressed,
but whom no one particularly notices.
T. Allen Culpepper