Here, in the little town, everything arrives late.

I, too, usually,

am someone who arrives late.

Take Vasco Rossi, for example:

I like him now, though I didn’t twenty years ago,

and Fabio Volo, perhaps,

I might like him too, but twenty years from now.

I’m still sitting

at a little round table

with a bottle of Cynar.

Meanwhile,

the wear and tear of modern life

has moved on

and has surely overtaken me by now.

But there’s nothing I can do about it,

it’s a question of speed.

When I get there, I get there,

and if it’s late, so be it.

I’m happy here.

I’m still enjoying Saragat’s elections,

and all the commotion of the present day

doesn’t interest me much.

To catch up with the world,

I’d need the safety car.

But then again, the safety car never comes.

And perhaps it’s better that way.