Moto Guzzi - It makes no difference, Mama

It makes no difference, Mama

It was raining horizontally, haphazardly,
unenthusiastically in fits and starts,
drizzling spasmodically, spitting ironically
into the wind with no inclination to fall
or dribble down. Be that as it may,
one could only say, emphatically,
there was no trace, not the slightest,
of Florentine fingerprints on the front
spaghetti fender of Rudolpho’s Moto Guzzi
as the fat left hand of Detective Suzzi,
held high in the air swore
while his right hand rested solemnly on
The Little Golden Book of Mother Goose.

Rudolpho’s mother, Donna Caterina,
having one hundred and ten years
but looking not a day over one hundred and two,
sat in the front row on a plump tapestry pillow,
dabbing with a lavender scented hankie
her crocodile tears, wondering whether she
should roast some pork tonight
or perhaps a chicken. She turned to
Rudolpho and whispered in his ear,
seeking his opinion. He farted twice
and said loud enough for all to hear:

“It makes no difference, Mama.”

Leocadia