Parcheggiata la bianca Cinquecento
l’uomo ne emerge e corre a qualche affare,
lasciandomi al muretto ad osservare
quel composto di tempo e sentimento.
E a pensare a quell’altra Cinquecento
che da bambini ci portava al mare.
E il mare era per gli altri: per me il vento
e un po’ di spiaggia bionda da scavare.
E mi veniva noia, e maledivo
la spiaggia il vento e quel catorcio bianco
odioso cigolante ed oppressivo.
Cercate di capire: sono stanco
di ricordi. Non è che son cattivo.
E’ per giustizia che le rigo il fianco.
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