Thursday night. July 31st.

Dizzy from a week’s tour of Italy that could be under-described as whirlwind.

I’m in Padua. (Padova in Italian.)

Our group rushed, more than rushed, through Venice today. I’m glad I was here two years ago. I’d feel like…

One day devoted to Venice is better than none?

Certainly.

We bused in from Padua early. A wooden boat ferried us to St. Mark’s. A local guide led us through the Doge’s Palace. She was knowledgeable and passionate. She hated Napoleon (still) for pillaging artwork that is still in France.

“Why do you think the Louvre has such a large Italian section?” Her voice quavered.

Then she led the group out into St. Mark’s Square for some final edifying words.

Thence to a Murano glass-blowing exhibition behind the Basilica. The glass blower is one of a dying breed, we were told by one of the owners. He is a sixth-generation “Master.” Not many follow in his footsteps because the apprenticeship is so long. He made a complex pitcher in a matter of minutes from molten glass as we watched.

Our tour company has a relationship with this glass company. I was ready to be jaded but actually thought it was pretty cool. Then up to a showroom where there was a sales pitch. “Investment” glass objects were offered, and their attributes explained. Special discounts were offered. Free shipping. But still, six wine glasses and a matching carafe were $1800.

At this point in life, I don’t need a new hobby. I’ve never opened the Baccarat tumblers that “could never be reproduced, as the WW2-era machine could no longer be maintained.”

I bought two at Harrods after the Oxford ILAB Congress in 2022. I DID inquire about the glassware.

Anyway, they were crazy expensive. They are still in their fancy Baccarat boxes, tied primly with Baccarat ribbons. I really should use them—at least once. But I don’t know if I could retie the ribbons properly.

Anyway… the Murano glass is an amazing art (or craft) form. Walking out, one must go through gallery after gallery of glass objets d’art. The mastodon was amazing. The full-size crystal horse… well, maybe a Bezos could buy one.

Photos are not permitted for copyright reasons.

And don’t buy from non-licensed sellers. Your tumblers would likely be Chinese knockoffs.

Then, I was on my own for a couple of hours. I wandered the streets and alleys. I crossed many little bridges. I took the steps up and down the Rialto. Then turned and repeated the steps up and down.

I was watching the time on my phone. The rendezvous was at 1:50. An hour left.

‘It’s now or never,’ I thought.

The guide had told us that Hemingway wrote A Farewell to Arms at the Caffe Florian. I should try it. I’d passed by earlier and made a video.

I lacked the confidence to ask to go in.

What’s wrong with me?

“You don’t belong there.”

I screwed up my courage.

“You may never return.”

I approached the entrance.

“Do you have a bar?”

(Bars can mean different things in Italy. Standing only. Ordering only. No “bar” in the bar…)

“This way, sir,” the young debonair woman in a black suit said.

It was a small room. (The regular bar is under renovation.) There were stools. One was free.

“Gin martini. Up very dry, please.”

The bartender in a white shirt, black vest and black tie seemed to appreciate a real cocktail being ordered.

“What kind of gin…”

He set the perfect thing before along with little bowls of chips and another of parmesan “biscuits” (cookies.)

Real Italian bars often serve a little “gift” with drinks. The day before I’d ordered a Messina beer in the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence. It came with a rather large basket of potato chips. Just look who is entombed there:

It is the burial place of many illustrious Italians, such as Michelangelo, Machiavelli, Enrico Fermi, Galileo, Ugo Foscolo, Guglielmo Marconi, Luigi Cherubini, Leon Battista Alberti, Vittorio Alfieri, Gioachino Rossini, Lorenzo Ghiberti, Lorenzo Bartolini, Pier Antonio Micheli, Bartolomeo Cristofori, Giovanni Gentile, thus it is known also as the Temple of the Italian Glories (Tempio dell’Itale Glorie.)

Back to Florian.

I sipped slowly, savoring the pure crystal miracle. Then a little bowl of wondrous olives appeared before me. I skewered one with the toothpick provided.

“Wow!”

I checked the time. Could I order another? Should I? I never drink at lunchtime.

“May I have another?”

All the guides intone, “Slowly. Slowly,” when their charges are crossing rough ground lest they get injured.

“Slowly. Slowly.”

Alone at the bar now. The place to myself for some unknown reason. I looked up the caffe on my phone.

Goethe? Casanova? Dickens? Proust? Byron?

Warhol. Chaplin. “Everyone,” I’m sure. I bet Jeff Bezos was here sometime during his long wedding festival when he took over Venice recently. (Our guide said her company had to cancel 5 tours because he had rented every boat in the city.) He’s a 21st-century Doge. More power to him. He has certainly sold more books than anyone in history.

“Slowly. Slowly.”

Sip. Savor. Be amazed at who has tippled here too.

Check my phone.

I wave the bartender over to pay. A pretty server sets a plate of miniature sandwiches before me.

“No. I can’t. I have an appointment.”

“No problem, sir.”

Out into the sun of Piazza San Marco.

“Cross four bridges from the Square, and you will be at our meeting point,” the guide had said.

“Is ten minutes enough?”

Up one bridge. Then down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

“You were treated like a celebrity. Like royalty!”

Then we boarded a sleek, green-hulled wooden boat to go to the island of Burano. When I was here two years ago, I’d had the courage to figure out how to get to several islands off Venice. Murano (where I learned far less about glass than I did in the sprawling shop with the master glassblower and dapper owner), San Michele (the cemetery island where Ezra Pound… is buried), the beach island of Lido…

The boat sped across the lagoon, bumping over waves, the deep-throated engines roaring.

Our guide spoke on a microphone, telling the names of islands and their attributes. (Venice consists of 118 islands.)

Then Burano came into view. It is noted for its colorful houses, fishing and lace-making heritage. (Most of the highly skilled lace-makers are aging out, and, like the glassblowers, the next generation is not stepping up.)

We were here for a “typico” Venetian island meal. The boat trip had shaken all the martini bleariness out of me. It was beautiful. Idyllic. The pastel-painted houses exuded charm and tradition.

Extremely narrow alleys offered colorful glimpses into areas that were not for tourists but still exhibited the island’s color palette.

The group was seated at eight-person tables. Jugs of white wine (we’re only having fish), bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar. Our meal was served family-style. Pots and platters were brought to the tables. Risotto with many shrimp, spaghetti with tiny clams, grilled John Dory, an immense platter of calamari and shrimp. Salad.

It was fabulous. Clearly the place was a family enterprise. Three generations bustled about.

It was finished with the best tiramisu I’ve ever tasted, espresso and a shot of sambuco.

Back out into the aging afternoon for free time to shop and explore. I didn’t want any lace or anything else, but a shop window filled with regional artisanal foods caught my eye. The two middle-aged male owners were clearly excited to see me cross the threshold. One came around from the back counter and helped. I had my eye on a truffle grinder. He helpfully pointed out that the expiration date was over two years out.

I bought some silly stuff. Squid ink and salmon pasta. A couple pounds of farina. (I guess there may be polenta in my future.) And truffle grinder gifts.

They will bring back memories even if they languish in the cupboards at home. Good intentions.

It is Friday morning. I’ll have to finish this on the fly. The bus goes to Verona and Milan—where the tour ends.

I’m anxious to get home. The rat races at home and at the warehouses seem calm and nostalgic compared to the roller coaster I’ve ridden the last ten days.

My phone keeps prompting me, “You’re walking more…” followed by bar graphs showing much taller columns of “steps” compared to home.

… I can still do it.

The last story ended with my first day in Rome. I was a different person then. Moody. Broody. Unsure I could handle the stress and exertions of a trip like this. There were still lingering effects from that car wreck in June. Would my knee hold out for all the walking and stair climbing I’d be facing? Or would it just give out at some point and force me to… what… bail out?

Roma

Last Friday, I finished the blog in bed. The bed felt good. So did lying down. When I’d sent the story and photos across the Tyrrhenian, Mediterranean, Iberian Peninsula and the Atlantic Ocean, it was time to get up.

The Keats-Shelley House would be an easy goal. The Spanish Steps were only about a ten-minute walk. Fortunately, the walk was to the top of a very long stairway. I walked down gingerly. The Keats House faces directly onto the Steps. The bedroom where Keats died has a window that looks onto the steps.

But it is closed? Only for an hour for lunch. I recalled a lovely meal right on the other side of the base of the steps. What kind of food was it?

Tea! Babington’s Tea Room.

It would be good to rehydrate until the Keats House reopened. I was led to a table. The staff all wear frocks like what I suppose 19th-century attendants would have worn. The menu was pretty extensive. I hadn’t planned on eating, but how often does one get the opportunity to take tea in an authentic teahouse? The sweat that had been pouring off me cooled. The presentation was lovely.

I chose Miss Babington’s own blend of tea, which was brewed at my table.

Then it was back out onto the baking street and across the foot of the Spanish Steps to the other side.

The Keats House.

I’d been there 6 years ago but felt drawn back. It was very like time travel. They’ve recreated the rooms as closely as possible. All the original furnishings had been burned per the health regulations at the time. This place has been the site of pilgrimages for lovers of Romantic poetry. A couple of the rooms are walled with floor to ceiling books. Many were gifted by bibliophiles over the 50 centuries or so.

I involuntarily gasped when I stood at the foot of the bed where the poor tragic wasted figure finally gasped his last.

Then it was time to leave the early 19th century. Down the long flight of apartment steps (which must have exhausted poor Keats, as did his friend Dr. James Clark’s bloodletting) and out into sun and crowds at the foot of the steps.

What to do now? I certainly wouldn’t walk up the steps. The Trevi Fountain was just a few blocks away. The phone led me down cobbled streets past high-end boutiques like Prada and Gucci.

The fountain was gushing torrents of water to the delight of throngs of tourists. I patted my wallet to be sure it was securely zipped into my thigh pocket. Security blew whistles whenever someone (usually young women) decided to sit on the edge of the fountain for a selfie.

What next? I remembered the vast park—the Borghese Gardens—and how much I enjoyed wandering there. It was December when I was there last. The grass was green. Now the grass was brown and dusty.

I made my way beneath the umbrella pines to the Borghese Gallery.

Sold out today.

Hmmm… why don’t I plan? I went online on my phone and found a ticket from a broker. Entry was not til 4 o’clock, so I wandered more in the vast park and neighborhood around it.

Back to the gallery—the Borghese family villa repurposed into an art gallery. Wandering amongst masterpieces puts the world into perspective.

The Bernini, of course, stands out.

He turns cold marble into living flesh.

The broker had helpfully told me not to miss the formal gardens, as they are not often open. They were in the last gasps of blooming hibiscus and callas.

I took coffee and water in the museum cafe to rehydrate, and then it was back out into the park. I turned on Respighi’s Pines of Rome, which played from my pocket as I wandered down and out of the park.

The Via Veneto ends at the bottom of the park. Harry’s Bar is at this end of that street.

“Do you have a seat at the bar?”

The top of the world to me in some ways. The center of La Dolce Vita. Actors, writers, celebrities… it is one of those places where so many of the movers and shakers of the world have passed. Two martinis.

And then back out and a short walk to my hotel.

I was hungry and still thirsty, so I made my way up to the rooftop bar and restaurant. The very helpful woman at check-in had recommended it. (She was amazing.) Whenever I passed the front desk, she greeted me, “Good morning… good afternoon… Mr. Roberts…”

I went for a beer and stayed for a four-course meal. I was the only patron in the Sky Blu Restaurant. I was seated next to the glowing blue pool and had a few of the bronze chariots atop the Capitoline in the distance.

It was one of those meals that strikes the mind as well as the palate. Yes. There are still culinary experiences you have never experienced before.

Saturday

I knew my first stop would be the Protestant (or English or Non-Catholic) cemetery where Keats and Shelley are buried.

I summoned an Uber, and the driver was very gregarious. We discussed soccer:

“A S Roma is the ONLY Roman team. The other [Lazio] is garbage… It is the ‘shirt’ not the man. That was the coach’s [Mourinho] problem. If the team won, it was his credit. If the team lost, it was their fault…”

And COVID:

“I’d been a taxi driver for over 20 years. In 2020 and 2021 I only worked 43 days…”

Dropped off outside the cemetery walls, I made my way to the entrance. The man and woman working there are English—as before. Husband and wife? Volunteers? Both.

I planned to commune with man and nature there. Dead men mostly.

Rome 7/25

Russians Germans Jews
Yanks Brits and cats
Cestius’ Pyramid soars heavenward

Beneath my feet bones repose
Cemetery cypress point like fingers
to salvation above
The graveyard fills
with the living
Tourists seeking tombstone names
Counting coups
The bells of Rome toll noon
I’ve found the friends I’d sought
I leave the graveyard for the river
The Tiber is near
Its flow drowsy with summer heat

I recalled that Keats’ grave is in a far, undeveloped corner.

He didn’t want his undeserved name engraved upon the tombstone.

But there’s a medallion portrait with his name hung upon the wall. Rome is outside that barrier. He is here. Forever.

I’d bought a little notebook at the gift shop of the Keats House. It came with a free pen. I’d forgotten notepaper at the hotel.

Then on to Shelley, who was found drowned on a beach. Shipwrecked. A copy of Keats’ almost unknown first book. Folded open as if these were the last words he’d read.

I wandered narrow bumpy aisles with upthrust stones and exposed roots. Drowsy cats repose upon stone sheets. Dead men repose below.

The heartrending angel, carved by her bereaved husband sculptor.

It was his last work.

I wandered up the Tiber. The stones of Rome in ruins along the way.

Churches and temples face one another across streets roaring with motorcycles.

I had no plans. I’d wander and let serendipity guide.

Then I found myself at the foot of the Capitoline Hill—one of the 7. Atop it are the ancient senate and a basilica and a sprawling museum. The steps up to it were daunting.

Steps. Steps. STEPS. Everywhere, stone staircases rising. Descending. My wounded knee taking the shock of every impact.

The Capitoline Museum is a huge maze. I never did figure it out. I wandered for a few hours along galleries of statues and archaeological bits, paintings and views over the sprawling Roman forum. I passed hundreds of objects. Still, I knew I’d missed many things.

Then up more steps to the Basilica. It appeared that it was being prepared for a wedding.

Some nuns had a few tables set up, offering their nun crafts and baked goods and (thank God) bottled water. I could find no shop or cafe anywhere atop the Capitoline.

Back down to earth, I wandered around the perimeter of the Forum. The Financial Police were confiscating a street vendor’s wares and stuffing them into the back of their car.

Time to head back toward the hotel. I stopped at a few churches and museums. One was a “paleo” Christian church set down about 40 steps, the modern world having built up all around it. Perhaps the most striking was this Bernini chapel sculpture of St. Theresa.

I freshened up—changing my sweaty clothes before heading back to Harry’s Bar.

Back to the rooftop Sky Blu Restaurant at the hotel where I had another, completely different, dinner that was just as iconic as the night before.

Sunday.

I need to switch hotels. The tour begins tonight. I will miss the Aleph. I was treated royally.

I asked for a late checkout. I know I will have to check my bags at the new hotel.

Why not buy a book at the Keats-Shelley House? (Unbelievable. Among the things left at home was the John Dickson Carr I knew I’d had ready to pack. It is probably on the bed.)

It’s closed on Sundays.

But the Spanish Steps are just an 8-minute walk from here. 8 minutes to the TOP of the steps, fortunately. I descended gingerly. My knee is not trustworthy yet. It might go out. I could fall down and break my crown. I stuck to the side with a hand on the stone banister.

It is only 80 degrees today, thank God. Walking on the shady sides of the streets. Still, sweat poured from me. That’s new. I don’t recall becoming wet all over for quite a while.

I only brought 5 shirts and 3 pants. The shirt I flew in and wore the next day was very stale. The black one I wore Friday and Saturday shared the same fate. I washed them with shampoo in the shower. But I saw they would not dry quickly.

The towel warmer?

Yep. I figured out how to switch it on, and the clothes dried overnight. Full of wrinkles. Maybe there will be an iron in one of the hotels.

I’m wearing a bandaid over the “smile” on my right temple. And that’s on top of the sunscreen. The doctor warned me it might leave a permanent mark if it got too much sun.

Strange. People’s eyes rise to my hairline wherever I encounter them.

I wandered a bit before returning to the Hilton and catching an Uber to the tour group’s hotel. Its location was a little remote, but I found a museum about a 20-minute walk away. I’d never heard of it, but why not?

Torlonia… another ducal palace. This had some dark history. Mussolini lived here from 1925-1943. Then it became Allied Headquarters. The art gallery in the “villa” was ok. One of the crazy royals had built a quirky “folly” home featuring a LOT of stained glass. I wandered through The House of the Owls and was delighted. I even purchased a book (in English) about it.

The group met that evening for orientation. I’ve given up making friends on these trips. A single guy must seem like a predator among the families and single women.

Monday, we had our one-day whirlwind tour of Rome.

The Coliseum.

The Vatican. The art collection and, finally, the Sistine Chapel were overwhelming. (No photos are permitted.)

Heavenly rays poured into St. Peter’s.

There’s a theory that ancient statues were once painted.

What do you think? Do the eyes have it?

Tuesday already.

7:45 a.m. We boarded the bus to Orvieto and Assisi—leaving Lazio for Umbria. This is the reason I chose this tour. I wanted to visit some of the cities I haven’t been to yet. The bus is about 3/4 full.

It is a good time to get out of town. This week is the Jubilee Week of the Youth. The guides are fearful of the city filling up with kids. Thousands and thousands of teens. In the Vatican yesterday, I had a beer at a sidewalk cafe looking up toward St. Peter’s. (Actually I was in Italy. The Vatican border was about 100 yards away.) Barriers had been installed to create a demised path so pilgrims could get to the basilica without mixing with the tourists and other random people. Every ten minutes or so, a group would pass. Cross-bearers at the front. The followers were usually singing softly. Some had guitar accompaniment. Some groups were only a dozen or so young people. A larger group might have 50. It was moving—as so many things are in the Vatican.

I think, perforce, I’ve snapped out of my funk of many, many months. It started with my being slammed to the cobbles by a very large woman on a very heavy motorized bike. The last thing I remember is seeing her wide eyes. Then, I was picking myself off the street. Angry more than injured.

“You saw me!”

“I couldn’t stop. I was going 35 [kph.]”

As with most Dutch, her English was perfect.

Maybe the constant distractions have driven the brooding from my cobwebbed mind.

Maybe it’s all the steps. About 20,000 per day since I arrived Thursday.

Steps… Rome was loaded with steps (as in stairs.) I don’t know how many hundreds of steps I trod. I descended the Spanish Steps twice. I’d made sure I never needed to climb them. But so many are unavoidable. You can’t get into the Coliseum without climbing a lot of stairs. Same with the Capitoline Museum and complex.

Most museums seem to be former mansions or villas. The second floor—the Piano Nobile—is often quite a climb. I think high ceilings were considered healthy as well as a sign of wealth. Living on upper floors kept the nobility away from the smell and noise of manure and sewage-covered streets.

From Rome to Orvieto, we cross the Tiber River numerous times as it wends its way through the valley it has carved over the millennia. We pass through fields of sunflowers. The Apennines appear far ahead.

Orvieto is a mountaintop city founded on Etruscan roots. Usually, you park at the bottom and take a funicular up. That machine was broken, so the bus was permitted to go halfway up. There, a shuttle took us to the cathedral square. The Domo is a Gothic edifice. It soars high into the sky. The facade is covered with mosaics and intricate marble carvings.

Other than that, it was just another medieval town. It was the first place I felt the vendors and restaurant owners were unfriendly and only interested in my money. Maybe it was just my bad luck.

I had seen everything and wasn’t interested in lunch. With time to kill, I visited an Etruscan museum, which at first seemed pretty lame. But as I kept going up flights of stairs, it got better and better. Apparently, scholars are still trying to decipher the Etruscan language.

The road to Assisi from Orvieto winds along the mountainside and precarious drops to the Tiber far below. Restaurants and gas stations seem all to have been closed some years ago. COVID? Maybe before that. The Uber driver I had in Rome told me he worked a total of 46 days in 2020 and 2021. “I’d been a taxi driver for 28 years.”

Assisi—a pink city perched upon a mountain.

(We are on the bus to Florence the next morning.)

St. Francis changed the world. To make the church accessible to the mostly illiterate faithful, he had scenes from the Bible painted. They could be “read” kind of like comic books.

To get to the basilica, you need to walk up a sloping cobbled path. There are at least three levels to the basilica. I entered the lower level. It was a large dim chapel.

(A large group of pilgrims exits a mountain path in front of the bus. They are taking the Path of Light, which is a last leg of Franciscan Way pilgrimage which starts in Canterbury. We pass smaller groups on the valley floor. All are making their way to Assisi. A large field of sunflowers flashes by.)

Back to Assisi. The lower basilica. About halfway to the altar stairs down to Francis’ tomb appear. His body had been hidden by a monk so it wouldn’t be broken and sold piecemeal as relics. The rail is old cast-iron twisted into the shape of a rope. (One symbol of the Franciscan order is the jute robe with a rope belt with three knots in it. The knots represent Poverty. Chastity. Obedience.

At the foot of the stone steps, his tomb appears encased in large boulders rising almost to the ceiling. The boulder wall itself is fenced in on three sides by a heavy black iron fence.

(No photos are permitted, so the next two photos are courtesy of the internet.)

It is a very rustic and serene place carved out of the heart of the mountain.

Back up a matching set of steps to the lower basilica.

There, the altar is surrounded on three sides by an arched ceiling covered with stunning frescoes.

You exit up more steps to eventually get to the upper basilica. But first you come to a cloistered courtyard. Our guide suggested stopping in the gift shop off to the side here. Most of what is offered are products of Franciscan monks. There was some lovely stuff. Soaps and creams—heavy on lavender scents—were available in dozens of varieties. I was looking for a copy of “The Canticle of the Creatures” and was not disappointed.

The Canticle of the Creatures
By St. Francis of Assisi
Most High, all-powerful, good Lord
Yours are the praises, the glory, and the honour, and all blessing,
To you alone, Most High, do they belong,
And no human is worthy to mention your name.
Praised be You, my Lord, with all Your creatures,
Especially Sir Brother Sun
Who is the day and through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor;
And bears a likeness of You, Most High One.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
In heaven You formed them clear and precious and beautiful.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
Through whom You light the night,
And he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.
Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Mother Earth,
Who sustains and governs us,
And who produces various fruit with colored flowers and herbs.
Praised be You, my Lord, through those who give pardon for Your love,
And bear infirmity and tribulation.
Blessed are those who endure in peace
For by You, Most High, shall they be crowned.
Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death,
From whom no one living can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those whom death will find in Your most holy will,
For the second death shall do them no harm.
Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks
and serve Him with great humility.

On the way out to checkout area, there was a case of alcohol products.

Gin?! St. Francis gin.

I couldn’t resist that.

Checkout was where most of the jewelry and medals and coins were kept under glass.

Almost hidden next to the shop was a lovely museum. Despite the hoards passing by going to the steps to the upper basilica, only a few people found this stealth room. It was lovely and serene and even had a case of illuminated manuscripts.

Finally, up the last flight and into the upper basilica. This church is much larger and higher.

Leaving the church, the long walls are covered with frescoes of Francis’ life. Most striking to me was this “Chariot of Fire” scene.

https://www.hellenicaworld.com/Art/Paintings/en/Part9366.html

Then I was outside in front of the basilica. A large green lawn spreads up the slope. Groups of young pilgrims were everywhere. I walked around the lawn to get a good view of the front of the church. On the far side, I turned and raced the church. The camera captured a single sunray that appeared to me like a comet ascending from the church toward heaven.

Then it was time to make my way down cobbled alleys to where the bus park was.

The hotel was nearby. It was a time traveler from 80s or maybe even the 70s. But it was charming for all its faults. Most of us only had an hour’s rest before we boarded the bus again to go for a 40-minute ride to an olive pressing facility. It was a family-owned business started by a grandfather in 1962. I was not impressed. The oil was not nearly as wondrous as what I experienced in Lecce a few years ago. The presentation was drawn out, and the “light meal” after I could easily have skipped. Finally, it ended, and I was glad to be out on the dusty country road as dusk began descending.

I’d better stop here. We are driving from Verona to Milan. It is hard to type, much less think, bumping around constantly.

I’ll have to report on Florence, Verona and Milan next week.

This is already too long and disjointed.

It can be edited when the book comes out.

I hope I can maintain the cleansing I’ve achieved here.

Hard work and focused interest in the world around me. Maybe that’s the secret.

(Warning Poem below.)

The cicadas cackle and crackle with electricity
It is high summer in Borghese Giardini
The grass is browning
The pines of Rome rocket skyward
Their heads blossoming green
Like a comet’s coma so high above
The ancient stones bake
They have cooked for thousands of years
Sweat pours from every pore
Purging my cells in renewal
What is old is new to me
Ancient is current
Sweat and suntan lotion blossom from me
Respighi conducts the Pines of Rome
From my pocket
As I walked a mile
Through the park
To Harry’s Bar
The Via Veneto
La Dolce Vita
A forbidden legend in my childhood
Train wreck beauties
Posing on the pavement
Hemingway at the end of the bar
Drinking his fame from two wars ago
And here I sit on the barstool
Perched on the precipice
Of decades
Generations
Centuries
Millennia
I missed so much in life
By saying no
So many regrets are from times I said, “yes”
There are no second takes
You live with yes and no
Forgotten til they well up
And slap you in the face
I’m hot dry
Old and tired