A poem about going to Italy.

Mother, I’m going to Italy,

where the men are kind and fat.

The red shutters and the blue ocean,

the black coffee in white cups.

The sweet little cakes with an emperor’s name.

Pizza and sex, wine and rolling tongues.

Archways and skinny streets, coin money and black lace dresses.

“Fine, but if you bring anything back, make it a rosary.”

The End

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