I have not yet committed to Italian beauty,
I am simply a tourist to her sandstone buildings –
Cattle skulls adorning great, pale archways.
Maria bows, weeping, over every boulevard,
The honesty and ubiquity of graffiti
That has been sealed into the skin of the concrete,
The countenance of her olive pastel veneers,
Silent, unchanging, the unspoken history
Of her alignments, once reale, then fascita.
The demigods still scowl from their mounts,
Though the men who had created them
Were banished by the righteous wind,
Their fiercely pretty idols still slumber,
Undisturbed, in the shopping district,
High towers, superior and unashamed,
Watch over boutiques and rooftop bars.
In the presence of these marble monarchs,
And of the very city herself, I am not unwanted
But I am not welcome.