Midnight, June 5
The street opposite is closing down.
There is a hotel run by a Sri Lankan.
They offer us some advice and free smiles,
We leave, carrying our bags that rattle on the
Well-worn pavement and reach the corner
Hotel managed by a Bangladeshi.
The young man offers us seats and comforting words,
While my son tries the numbers of the B&B.
Although homeless, despite reservation, we get
A sense of family under the long shadows of the
Warm night in a deserted city square, among
Different ethnicities and potted plants on the side!
At the mid-night hour drags slowly,
The city remains still alive in bits,
Groups of migrants from South Asia
Congregate in the opposite park, smoking,
A few Italians come out of the nearby theatre
Loud and talking like gregarious Asians,
We find some affinity on this odd night.
They are discussing Pirandello,
Over coffee and cigarettes standing in a huddle
On the pavement, keeping the lone Bangladeshi
Culture, nostalgia, migration, communication: all coalesce in one
Colourful moment on that pavement
Outside our overnight accommodation still denied!
Home, yet not home!
We feel the pain of the vagabonds.