Four of us walk a cobbled alley, 
pipes on the walls, green graffiti, 
shimmering lights on iron sconces.

Walt leads. Black coat, flat cap, 
semester student of Florence, 
knows the city like he planned it 
himself. He's shown us the Duomo,

the Firenze-Roma football match,

and now, a secret bakery.

 

We stop at a sliding glass door, 
misted green, the window above 
cracked open. Smell of chocolate,

caramelized sugar, baking pastries.

I hear footsteps. A figure passes 
the misted glass, a dark ripple. Then

the creak and rush of faucet water.

 

Walt knocks and steps back, hands

withdrawn to his pockets. The water

quiets. It's illegal for them to sell, 
he says, except to Florentine cafes.

Footsteps again, and the opaque 
figure appears behind the door. 
That's why they're secret, he says. 

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