Real
by Ken Head © 2008
Along the narrow side street outside her hotel, the sun
hasn't managed to haul itself high enough
yet to eyeball the worn, brown cobblestones
glistening wet from their early morning
hose-down, so the air's still goose-pimpling a few
bare arms, tempting passers-by away towards the clusters
of red umbrellas raised over rows of small, round
tables in the square, where the day's already moving
towards lunch, with waiters laying up as fast
as they dare and the last of the breakfast café solo
drinkers gone, even the regulars who read
their papers and smoke a cigarette or two there
every day. From behind dark glasses, she watches
another morning shaping up, sees artists,
jewellery-makers unloading old estate cars,
setting out their wares on trestle tables
in the brightest spots alongside beggars hunkering
down for the day, jugglers with clown-painted
faces and girls who earn a living plaiting tourists'
hair, but when the quiet man arrives who plays his flute
so lovingly, the music makes her long for home.