Twentieth-Century Balconies

Before telephones, on balconies,
we went out and let people know.
They were the safety valve of the house; the girls didn't go out
for walks
except for church services on Sundays.
But they were in plain sight on their balconies.

A young man passed by, a flower planted in his buttonhole,
a glance in flight, an understanding flashed,
a telegram sent by eyelashes.
On the balcony, among the plants, the young girl reeled wool,
embroidered on a loom, pretended to prick herself with her needle
to free her downcast eyes.

My grandmother got engaged on the balcony.
And my mother, in the summer, after the war,
would go out onto the balcony with other friends for some fresh air
and a man, twenty-eight, sitting nearby, asked her to
marry him.

I just met them outside, in Mergellina,
with the juggling sky of the sunset. But on another balcony the strongman had also appeared
to declare war, leaning rapaciously and parroting
over the self-drunk crowd.

It would have been better if he had appeared at the window
and even better if he had left it closed, so
the history of balconies and twentieth-century Italy would not have been spoiled.