The Patron Saint of Florence

Your name comes up between the words;
thinking time in the fluent writing
of narrow streets and stand-up cafes.
It goes like a bat above a garden,
not quite quick enough to be unnoticed.
You are the rumour no one wants to hear,
a conspiracy between the receptionist
and whoever else is on the other end.
They shake you out on a table cloth,
smooth you from a son’s smart clothes
and stitch you into fraying pockets.
Your name is mentioned at least once
every half an hour on commercial radio.
It seems you’ve made headline news
and play some part in the coming weather.