At the Alta Villa Trattoria in Ragusa,
Sicily, as the St. Giorgio fest rolls
to a finish, you listen to small brass
bands haul their marches through
sun heat up toward the baroque
cathedral, which manages to seem
at once imposing and cute. It's where
a solid silver ark holds "the bones
of various saints," an old man told you.
George, the saint that counts, remains
forever young in painted wood, gentle
face, white horse, sharp lance. Later,
in an evening without breeze, everyone's
had about enough of whatever they thought
they'd come for in the festival. A hard woman
with a fish tattoo stuffs her phone in her jeans,
disgusted. She'll argue with anyone who
wants to and some who don't. A toothless
ex-boxer is spruced up in an official white
shirt and red bandana. The Alta Villa
Trattoria's mostly for locals. It's a living.
Nearby, the guy who sells hand-made
puppets plays Ella Fitzgerald all day,
so I stay, buying enough coffee & water,
salads &sandwiches, & bottles &
bottles of water to pay my way.
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