La Baita on Via Veneto, just off the Piazza Barberini. We await a vegetarian breakfast. I’m hankering for a cappuccino. There’s a lot to do this day. The highlight will be the Galleria Borghese named for Cardinal Sciperone Borghese, patron of a greater sculptor than Michelangelo called Bernini. It’s very hot this morning. We’re beneath an awning but I’ve half a leg in the sun and that shin bone is heating up like an element and there’s nowhere else i can put it, nowhere comfortable anyway. Our waiter stands in the glare, hands behind his back, looking into the piazza; he’s wearing a waistcoat and a buttoned-down collar. Via Veneto is a posh street and has a concentration of high-end hotels full of business types, well-to-do tourists, whole American families on holiday, people who’ll do as much shopping as they will sight-seeing. They come down the hill past us and turn right toward the morning attractions. This is Friday and Rome is different on a Friday; it’s crowded with weekenders and city-breakers. Termini was packed tight this morning with suitcases and rucksacks. I saw a woman with no nose; she was rallying a brigade of beggars who looked a bit too healthy and fit for my euro. I was looking at a portrait of Lord Byron at the same time; he bore a strong resemblance to Usain Bolt which surprised me. The most useful word we’ve learned so far is “preggo” which can mean several things depending on the context. I love these muscular words. “Preggo” can mean, “Can I help you?” if you’ve just walked in to a store and met the eyes of the assistance; it can mean “Please sit down and I’ll be with you in a moment,” if you are...

We called it Grandpop’s Rock but rock is sharp & suggests nothing of this dark stone that rose smooth-shouldered from the water.

Two choices: either miss or hit, Either in or out, either you Enjoy the challenge Of the new Piece of paper Or I sit back and wallow As the sheet hurtles towards The cylindrical silver void In the corner of the room. Indulge the bin! Go on, take all That was Written into the supernova By the Photocopier, Its lethargic spin Takes The clock hands in unison; Time slows, the rotation of the earth Stalls for breath: “Perhaps it has been long enough.” Her eyes are not as fixated as mine; Gushing winds commute diametrically To that of the scrap, less than a second now; Or is it an hour? Is it a day? I can feel myself Ageing with the paper. Perhaps I am To be binned; Perhaps we are to be binned The silver knight strikes away The advancing renegade Sends it to pulp                                                                                                                                                                           Fostered by steel                                                                                                                                                                           but housed by reality                                                                                                                                                               Staring at the paper on the floor,                                                                                                                                                 A gentle exhale                                                                                                                                                                    Extended from the throne to my left: “So close; next time,” she remarks; My turn to agree: “Yeah, next...