Roman Holiday

The bridge kept off the
summer showers, just across
from the Naval Ministry;
and the Tiber at night
rushed past in a flow of whispers

Come daybreak, toothbrushes
in hand to one of the many
Roman fountains, mouths still
sour from last night's wine,
our bellies gently rumbling.

Sing hey for the life
of the modern gypsy, denationalized,
destabilized, speaking
smatterings of five different
languages, none of them well

Breakfast at the cheap restaurant
near the Trevi Fountain; on then to
the Spanish Steps, a day of passionate
street music, the tangled-haired
girls simply asking for cash

But sometimes the local guys
would get the wrong idea, hoping
against hopeless hope, and we
would surround them, silent, bearded,
staring, our guitars held like clubs

And in the evening, the takings of the day
carefully counted, re-counted,
a gay procession to one of our
favorite places, to mounds of pasta,
to rivers and oceans of vino

Sing hey for the life
of the happy hippy gypsy, dazed,
unfocused, enfolded in a city
that for three thousand years
has seen it all before.