What are Italians doing?

They are riding bikes without holding the handlebars.

They are peeling apples and pears before eating them.

They are fetishizing Japan and

Drinking before dinner.

They are kissing in public

And they start with the right cheek.

They are learning their respective dialects

And expressing opinions at most costs.

They are hovering over their children

And hiding behind their parents.

They are flying south, going to the sea

come summertime, if they can.

They are depending on their umbrellas

and praying for their families.

They are baking desserts for their doctors

And neglecting paperwork.

They are going home for lunch,

Coming back when they see fit.

They are spending time in front of their vanities.

They are cursing behind the steering wheel.

They are reaching across Apennines of difference,

Finding friendship in most places.

They’re working too hard and

They’re worrying, passively.

They’re speaking to me, eager to seize,

And they’re calling each other beautiful.

They’re touching and shouting and

Teeming with resentment,

Releasing and running

and coming home.