Duomo and Bell Tower
Ponte VecchioFlorence
When the train takes us toward Bologna,
when we leave behind Brunelleschi’s Duomo
and the sienna-tiled roofs of Florence,
after we close the door on the albergo
run by Allesio and Asumi, each day
the shopkeepers will sell diamonds
on the Ponte Vecchio, the sun will set
over Santa Trinita, and the marble
of Michelangelo’s David will glow
like new skin. His massive hand
will cradle the killing stone,
waiting for Goliath, as though
any afternoon the giant, as tall
as the cathedral bell tower,
will stride past Dante’s stone house,
moving north through narrow streets,
past pizzerias and souvenir shops,
the army of the Philistines at his back.
When the train takes us toward Bologna,
when we leave behind Brunelleschi’s Duomo
and the sienna-tiled roofs of Florence,
after we close the door on the albergo
run by Allesio and Asumi, each day
the shopkeepers will sell diamonds
on the Ponte Vecchio, the sun will set
over Santa Trinita, and the marble
of Michelangelo’s David will glow
like new skin. His massive hand
will cradle the killing stone,
waiting for Goliath, as though
any afternoon the giant, as tall
as the cathedral bell tower,
will stride past Dante’s stone house,
moving north through narrow streets,
past pizzerias and souvenir shops,
the army of the Philistines at his back.
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