We were welcomed by the old men. They stopped
buffing motorscooters to shout, "Ciao, bella!", nodded,
and then picked up their cloths again. The older women
are the best, though, strolling along the Tiber in fur
and Gucci sunglasses; they don't let age interfere with their right
to be fabulous. At the Pantheon, I was one of those mortals
in an alien invasion movie where I watched the blue sky pass
through the hole in the dome as if it were a blue-lighted spaceship.
If you come, go to the Trevi Fountain for the figures, muscles
like swelled melons, emerging from the wall, for the rush of water
against the smooth marble, for the story of the boarded-up window.
Throw a coin over your shoulder. But the police will stop you
if you think you’re living La Dolce Vita,
and splash around in the pool.