The floor is mosaicked
like a carp.
Asleep in the palazzo
is the night garage.
Motorbikes there are like Saracens
or locusts folded up in sleep.
There are no Paolos, no Juliets,
just moist, breathing Chevrolets.
Giotto frescos are reflected
like mechanics in the bonnets.
Spectres of theft and battle hover.
What is the night garage dreaming of?
from the restaurant?
Only one motorbike is hushed –
What’s it waiting for? Tomorrow it’s Christmas day.
It’ll cave in like a soft-boiled egg.
Oranges and people applauding…
Those who smash themselves
We were not born for survival
but to coax the most out of speedometers!..
Red, done for, burn! Burn!
But I weep for the girl on the pillion…
Notes on this poem
© Zoya Boguslavskaya.