I shook Mussolini’s hand
and drove in his Fiat.
I drank from the Campari fountain
at the edge of Lake Como.
I sat in the court of Beatrice d’Este
and heard her musicians play.
I climbed from Sansepulcro to Montecasale
and knelt with the monks to pray.
My voyage has made me tired.
But I must rise—
from the stuffed, leather chair,
from the ring of light cast
by the faux Tiffany lamp—
into the dark and try to sleep,
for the children will need breakfast.