Bologna
In Bologna, too early in the day
for tourists, a man and his son
hold accordions under a colonnade.
The man’s fingers skim the keys
like butterflies on “Roll Out the Barrel.”
His brow-wrinkled son grips
his too-large instrument, battered
and gray, trying to play along.
He’s got the moves, the in and out
of the bellows, the erratic foot-tap.
But his notes punch the air at random,
go off in directions all their own.
They lean toward one another
like the old towers down the street.
I toss a euro into their cup and walk
two blocks to the piazza
where Neptune’s Fountain
murmurs day and night. A constellation
of coins glistens beneath the water.
In the nearby palazzo is a stairway
wide enough for a team of horses.
###In Bologna, too early in the day
for tourists, a man and his son
hold accordions under a colonnade.
The man’s fingers skim the keys
like butterflies on “Roll Out the Barrel.”
His brow-wrinkled son grips
his too-large instrument, battered
and gray, trying to play along.
He’s got the moves, the in and out
of the bellows, the erratic foot-tap.
But his notes punch the air at random,
go off in directions all their own.
They lean toward one another
like the old towers down the street.
I toss a euro into their cup and walk
two blocks to the piazza
where Neptune’s Fountain
murmurs day and night. A constellation
of coins glistens beneath the water.
In the nearby palazzo is a stairway
wide enough for a team of horses.
David Shumway on Rock Stars and Hip Hop
###
Keeping Old Italian violins in shape
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