Blues for Dante Alighieri

Our room was too small, the sheets scratchy and hot-
Our room was a kind of hell, we thought,
and killed a half-liter of Drambuie we’d bought.

We walked over the Arno and back across.
We walked all day, and in the evening, lost,
argued and wandered in circles. At last

we found our hotel. The next day we left for Rome.
We found the Intercontinental, and a church full of bones,
and ate takeout Chinese in our suite, alone.

It wasn’t a great journey, only a side trip.
It wasn’t love for eternity, or any such crap;
it was just something that happened . . .

We packed suitcases, returned the rental car.
We packed souvenirs, and repaired to the airport bar
and talked about pornography, and movie stars.