Marco Pelliccioli
TRAM NUMBER 3
The number three used to come this way
scooping up factory workers, ferrying their wives to town
not a plane, just a tram:
when you reach the end of the line
Dawn’s restaurant, the laundry and the floating rags,
rowdy boys spilling into the street,
Nino’s tavern with the glasses resting on the barrels,
and new passengers would jump on board,
to sit resentfully in the cigarette smoke...
Until one day, one morning, you didn’t come back
at the stop Bruna waited for hours
clutching the ticket, hands on her hips
and still, at times, by the window in Via Furietti
she listens to the doors, the wheels, the breaks,
the lights that are not there
and waking, she hangs up her scruffy clothes in the wind.
Publisher: First publication on versopolis.com, , 2023
TRAM NR. 3
Ooit passeerde hij hier, tram nummer drie
hij pikte de arbeiders en hun vrouwen op, onderweg naar de stad
lijkend op een vliegtuig, of een vreemd dier:
eenmaal zijn eindpunt bereikt
het restaurantje van Alba, de was, de hangende vodden,
de snotneuzen uit de kleuterschool die door de straat renden
Nino’s herberg waar ze de glazen op de vaten plaatsten
wie instapte keek verbolgen naar de aangestoken sigaretten…
Maar op een ochtend, op een dag, kwam je niet meer terug
de brunette aan de halte, gebalde vuisten naast haar heupen,
ze heeft drie uur op je gewacht met het ticket in de hand
en soms, aan het raam in via Furietti, luistert ze nog steeds
naar de deuren, de wielen, de remmen, de lichten,
die er inmiddels niet meer zijn
en bij het waken hangt ze haar versleten vodden in de wind…
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
TRAM NR. 3
Un tempo passava di qui, il tram numero tre
raccattava gli operai, le mogli, per giungere in città
neppure fosse un aeroplano, o un animale strano:
quando arrivava a capolinea
la trattoria dell’Alba, i panni, I cenci appesi,
i monellin dell’asilo correvano per strada
all’osteria del Nino poggiavano i bicchieri sulle botti
chi saliva a bordo notava risentito le Nazionali accese…
Poi una mattina, un giorno, non sei più ritornato
la Bruna alla fermata, i pugni stretti ai fianchi,
ti aspettò tre ore con il biglietto in mano
e ancora all afinestra in via Furietti a volte
ascolta le porte, le route, i freni, i fari,
che ormai non sono più
e nella veglia stende i panni logori nel vento…
From: The Orphan
Publisher: LietoColle - Pordenonelegge,
TRAM NUMBER 3
The number three used to come this way
scooping up factory workers, ferrying their wives to town
not a plane, just a tram:
when you reach the end of the line
Dawn’s restaurant, the laundry and the floating rags,
rowdy boys spilling into the street,
Nino’s tavern with the glasses resting on the barrels,
and new passengers would jump on board,
to sit resentfully in the cigarette smoke...
Until one day, one morning, you didn’t come back
at the stop Bruna waited for hours
clutching the ticket, hands on her hips
and still, at times, by the window in Via Furietti
she listens to the doors, the wheels, the breaks,
the lights that are not there
and waking, she hangs up her scruffy clothes in the wind.
From: The Orphan
Publisher: 2023, First publication on versopolis.com,
TRAM NUMBER 3
The number three used to come this way
scooping up factory workers, ferrying their wives to town
not a plane, just a tram:
when you reach the end of the line
Dawn’s restaurant, the laundry and the floating rags,
rowdy boys spilling into the street,
Nino’s tavern with the glasses resting on the barrels,
and new passengers would jump on board,
to sit resentfully in the cigarette smoke...
Until one day, one morning, you didn’t come back
at the stop Bruna waited for hours
clutching the ticket, hands on her hips
and still, at times, by the window in Via Furietti
she listens to the doors, the wheels, the breaks,
the lights that are not there
and waking, she hangs up her scruffy clothes in the wind.
Publisher: 2023, First publication on versopolis.com,
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