I put water into the rental Fiat
after washing it with a pail of water.
An eight-year-old told me where
water goes for windshield. Lucky.
Rain contains volcanic ash in Sicily.
An unhandyman fixed the hoses
used to wash down the balconies
after mudrain because such jobs are
too small to call in professionals.
I did try to convince an army of ants
not to use our outside wall to set up
a headquarters in our ceiling.
They know I don’t live here all year.
I went shopping by myself, go for coffee
without a translator. I drive there but
forgot to get an international license
so try not to draw attention but
in driving slowly only draw attention.
I also wear a seatbelt and don’t talk
with my hands while driving which is
asking for trouble. I’ve eaten all kinds
of pasta and it is filling. The pizza
is always perfect and swordfish
and salad at that little place beside
the beach at sunset was worth the trip.
Coffee anywhere is excellent and
pastries are whatever tops that.
So, I get by. My Italian never improves
but I get by with help from a patient
Sicilian, who keeps me on a leash.
I know the beach is across the street
but water, sand and stones don’t captivate
me as much as a good read on a comfy
sofa devoid of sand. Being near the beach
is reassuring, especially at sunset, but
I see no reason to set up camp on it
when I have a home without insects
but with snacks and cold drinks.
So that’s where I remain while goddess,
who already had dark skin, darkens
her skin with sun and chemicals.
I remain whitest of white men who
is not albino. And if I must go in sun?
Covered almost head to toe. Almost.
Being Australian it’s thongs every-
where unless ordered to wear shoes.
She orders me to wear shoes often.

Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. He has published poems in 20 countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled My Photos of Sicily, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.