In the corner near the front window two senior citizen sit.
They sit and hardly do anything else but sitting there.
The old man, once a figure tall dressed in city linen, (I guess)
now compressed to a bending gesture with one hand to his pint
and the small, folded chest in a forlorn yellow spencer,
yellow from the city of Naples, more candid in (I guess) that surroundings
and luminous just as often Giorgio Morandi touched it,
and the other, not too old to glimpse at some of the minor sweets,
both with a smile acquiescent and as may be noticed far from radiant too,
as no political matter came to the table and no drudgery cured old age
apart from both pints and a pair of glasses and from all they could have said
a most familiar phrase, teasing the (I guess) dark whereabouts.
One takes to the bathroom. The other sticks to his pint half emptied, holding to it
as he stares at the table, adding kilometers and, and decades, and rooms inhabited.
From (I guess) the plague of Naples to the plague of these and many other days.