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The Piazza

Sitting on the steps of the Duomo

Sitting on the steps of the Duomo

The piazza is the heart of this city. Where the young and old alike are drawn together to sip on caffe or cappuccino. It’s where mothers try hopelessly to keep their children’s faces and fingers free of sweet, sticky gelato melting before it can reach their mouths. Perhaps most importantly, it’s where the old men of Cagli have perfected the ancient tradition of passing time.

At the corner table, one man sits alone. His eyes are closed and his arms are crossed over his belly as he drifts in and out of sleep. His black wool socks are thick and show under pants that are worn short. He carelessly moves a bit of something from one side of his mouth to the other and seems content to sleep here in the piazza, rather than making his way home.

In the table next to him are two men and although they don’t outwardly
converse with one another, their friendship is evident. The one on the right is absorbed in his reading, his fingers dingy from the black ink of the newspaper he holds, while the other holds a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He does not rush to smoke it but instead it is left to burn down slowly, leaving behind a stack of gray ash. Cerulean eyes glance side to side as he examines the piazza and his skin tells a history of living life under the Tuscan sun. As his friend utters a phrase from under his newspaper, he flicks his cigarette in agreement and looks away at the man still asleep in the corner.


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