PASOLINI'S ROME

Brushing his shiny hair
near summer foliage in fetid air
playing soccer at a home court
near garden graves of a monastery
Pier Paolo with lukewarm hands
passes the ball to another
as an extra supporting
one enthusiastic team
in the dusk dream of the uninvited
with his laughter heard by hedges
on the dewy shadowed grass
at open marsh bird fields in Rome
dividing his break time
in shop windows without much cash
searching for bread
and cheaply priced wine
excited to have woken up early
in the bird sounding street
from one hour shy of first light
when a lone orange is located
in a soup kitchen dark church
of St. Anthony
along with fresh cut greenery
before his hungry bloodshot eyes
as he shares sliced bread
with the younger ones
for youth will outshout youth
in a generous hunger
of game stamina
on the silent sparrow grounds
of adolescence
the ball is caught and yields
with pronounced energy
on the sunken open grain fields
in the shadow of being invited
suddenly the rain invades
a sunshine upon shielded plains
by the rocks of July landscape
its butterflies and birds parking
on a valley's greensward boulevard
the boys are mimicking
all who sink or fall into red phlox
moving by riverbeds for a swim
now gather wild dandelions on edges
hearing a jazz sax riff
off the docks at shore
washing into a new baptism
to listen to an unknown voice
of an outspoken Italian bard
named Pier Paolo Pasolini
who shapes his words
like playing cards
to share with friends
amid an intoxication of day stars
on a canvas of graffiti
when only his poetry amends.