In Vinny's den are bookcases of photo albums.
He treasures them as if they were
original manuscripts smuggled
from the Vatican Library.  
 
There is his daughter leaning out
over the Fontana de Trevi like a water
serpent.  She throws a quarter
over her shoulder.  
 
There she is pretending
to weep, surrounded by sobbing
pipes, as Cupids pass clear urine
in ornate bowls.
 
Nearby the Piazza Venezia 
lures Vinny.  The Palace, once prime
real estate in 1455, is still 
about location, location, location.
 
He buries himself behind his camera
like a sniper behind his rifle.
The world shrinks to the size
of a lens.  He never sees the girls
lifting their eyes at me.
 
"Che belle ragazze!" I shout.
But he's moving me with a wave
of his hand.  "Lean right."   
While he rotates his camera
  
I slip into Tre Scalini, gorge
myself on the bitter chocolate
of tartufo.  Everywhere in Rome
there are eager scents.  Garlic
and mint.  Percorino Romano.  
The sloped, perfumed shoulders
 
of beautiful women.  Ah, if I
could drag a net across this
piazza for a bride, would I find
anyone to throw back?  Where is
 
my friend?  Ah, snapping a photo
of another gargling fountain.
 
"How I love Rome," he says.