AFTER THE PIPER, THE FEAST

AFTER THE PIPER, THE FEAST

Sitting on a park bench, all I'm good for nowadays,
Outside the Museo Borghese, on a Roman holiday.
My lover browses, lost in beauty, of sculptures and of treasures fair.
Tapestries upon the ceilings, oil paintings of vintage rare.

While I await him on my bench, a flutist plays his haunting songs,
That whistle through the park serene as tourists stroll along.
The families pedal on their bicycles, smiles upon their faces.
And the flutist plays on like the Pied Piper of Hamelin,
Filling the air with music, filling in the day's empty spaces.

The crows are not amused by his music sweet,
And their caw-caw's nearly drown his song and nearly spoil the treat.
As the music resonates and as the crows make plain their fury,
And as the tourists and the locals go by in a hurry,
From my bench I spy an ancient woman,
Bent over with hunger and a withered spine,
Tin cup in hand and barely upright, clearly running out of time.
And creeping along, almost parallel to the ground,
Help me, help me she pleads, in a low and desperate sound.

The old lady a specter from some Halloween nightmare,
While the people pass oblivious, pretending not to care.
By this time the flutist has finished his tunes,
The pied piper gone with his children and his euros.
The crows replaced by the old woman in black,
With the gnarled outstretched hand, pleading for what she lacks.
The crows they have vanished, tasting blood on their beaks,
For after the piper and the children, the feast.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED