Milano
northwards leads to god-knows-where,
by
Como gleaming in the morning sun ‒
a
frightened fascist mistress on the run,
a
witness to the end of her affair.
She
stands beside the man who led her there,
Valerio
aims with a borrowed gun ‒
her
thirty-three year journey finally done,
strung
up upon a meathook in the square.
The
gasoline, the cigarettes, the knives,
the
baying crowd, the piss, the boots and fists ‒
a
retribution for those wasted lives,
Saint
Catherine's day provides a final twist:
Benito's
iron folly turns to rust
as
Clara's beauty fades into the dust.
RJT
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