By Ishmael von Heidrick-Barnes
Little Italy
The bocce ball sun
is rolling westward
nudging skyscrapers from sleep
In Little Italy
delivery trucks are unloading
another day’s supply of stock:
Chianti flown in from Tuscany
produce from the valley
By noon
waiters in white shirts
will be busy sitting
office workers on lunch breaks
tourists dining alfresco
in half a dozen restaurants
If you linger
over plates of steaming pasta
you may catch a musical phrase
in the mother tongue
of a few old timers
If you reserve
a table at life’s banquet
become a regular
they will join you
for a glass of Sambuca
the Pacific
flooding their fishnet faces
with reflections of San Diego past
The sleepy town
you vaguly remember as a boy
will hoist its rusting anchor onto deck
You’ll recognize the names
of Portuguese and Italian families
who trawled for a living here
when albacore ran in numbers
turning turquoise sea silver
Walk down any city block
in their minds
all avenues lead to bay
Scent of sea salt
encrusted eyes
still waiting for the tuna fleet
to return from open waters
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