Salome

White plate balanced at a slight angle on two small boxes – one cardboard and the other plastic. Salome is waiting for the head of St John the Baptist. In the meantime she has eaten some burnt toast. I used to walk through the Florentine gardens. I was camped at the very edge of town. I carried bottles of wine back to my tent each night. It was Easter. The contents of the fruit bowl have dwindled to a single avocado. I threw out the flowers several days ago and then, just yesterday, the bottle of wine that had held them. I can recall the Florentine girls – their long, dark hair, their jeans and blue tops. They were rarely alone. They wandered around in groups laughing. No use following them. My fate lay here. The softness of a white plate – the rim brighter than the flat bottom. A deep milky soup scattered in the blackest galaxy. Salome slips into lassitude. John the Baptist is nowhere to be seen.