Via Rizzoli

The buzzer plate flaunts one dottore, so easy and without the bump of ceremony in the c or k, depending on the lingual clump

of foreign conversation, passing judgement on the scenery, below arcades, while hiding in their shades, for lack of greenery.

I take a right from Il Dottore to the Piazza Maggiore

and briefly watch the laid down work, where heavy duty in bulk alights next to the brownish church, whose unfinished façade decides

for me what I should do and see and mutter to my wife about the inner things that bid the eye to gladly dive

back a few centuries ago and work the tongue to say what comes to mind before the thought is bumped away.