And so there we have it: bench creaks
and shutter clicks, unmuffled.
Shameless adoration.
Tourist congestion
around the Botticelli.
We’re trying to make this up
as we go along.
Amongst the art-junkies
in the café on the roof
of the Uffizi, sparrows
do at least not shit
in cups of over-priced coffee.
In the photograph,
I almost look happy.
Over at the Accademia,
there's Byron’s head on a shelf.
We could drink cocktails all night,
for ten Euros.
In the drafty yard
of the Strozzi Palace,
Sarra’s got the bit between her teeth:
she's typing, pigeon-style,
on a Remington portable,
140 characters – a retro-Tweet.
It goes on. It’s cold
and we should go back
to the hotel. Sometimes
that’s what happens.
