Image Junkyard #4 (Week Two)

From my table, I see the Pope. He's in the pastries, waving over the masses gathered. And I wonder if anyone else finds it odd, if even the cornetti crammed right at the head find his smile a little too relaxed for a caffé. It's only a reflection, I know--t.v. hung on the wall directly across--his back to me. But there's something in the way both glass and body work in the wrong ways and look beautiful, draw me
in with uneven edges, angles unsteady and steadying my foreign catalog of needs. Outsourced as the heros on my shirt. They're Asians--the fung shway of my day, of my passable Italian, the foam, anxieties, in my espresso.