When the Streets Shout the Past

Sometimes it hits me when it’s absolutely not on my mind.

But a motorcycle buzzing by, the smell of hot cement, the impatient sound of a car horn assault my senses, shatter my long-accepted resignation, fire up my tamed emotions.

Give me the city, damn it.  I want to be drowned by the noise, the voices, the pounding of traffic, the intoxicating scent of exhaust.

Settled in the quiet tediousness of the suburbs, my Mediterranean blood flows fiery in my veins, demanding life.  The way it ought to be, pulsating, instigating, invigorating, the hell with the price.

There is a price for everything, my friends.  But the good pay the highest rate.  Incentives to being responsible: Few.  Think before you commit.

Keep your lavender bushes in the front lawn, let me have the allure of lively shops, busy people dreaming by the glittery displays, the sidewalks alive with impromptu music scenes, walking into a  cloud of cigarette smoke, inebriated by that glorious aroma, along the road, or in a small club, or backstage in the parochial theater.  Gliding to the sound of traffic, catching the fleeting glances of strangers, enticingly frightening, carrying a mystery you might not be able to resist.  Please don’t.

Give me the past, too, please.  The way I see it now, of course.

The past shouldn’t have the taste of regret.  It should taste of hope.