Poetry

When in Rome

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 POETRY

This is wicked.

I’m within a stone’s throw of the Vatican,

and I’m fucking your brains out

in a cheap pensione.

You’re the friend of my boyfriend —

there’s the sin.

My boyfriend’s an intellectual,

so am I, so are you — but you’re dumber.

You ask me how I want to do it.

On a chair, I say, face to face.

In this room, there’s a bed — double-sized, sheets all threadbare

and damp — and one scuffed, wooden chair.

Lucky for us, that’s all we need.

© 2000 Faulkner Fox and Nerve.com, Inc.