Over the camouflage cloth south of the Alps
then the sting of sun at Ciampino and the
cab drivers shouting and pushing each other
as they wait for fares that never seem to come.
In the city an old aeroplane droning around with
a Vota Forza Da Liberta banner fishtailing above
the Teatro Dell 'Opera where the bourgeoisie
clap themselves for being there and the touting
accordionist hissing at his saxophone rival
outside the Art Deco feast of O'Brien's Bar.
Hearing the scooters through the shuttered window
and glancing at Rafaello's angels on the wall
seeing your questioning eyes as you
gave me a card on which those cherubs
gazed forlornly past me and now wanting
to send one to you wishing you were her.