The American woman has a rudeness
The best of which is that she doesn’t even know
Or care; take today, in the Uffizi
With her camera set to video
She stood right in front
Dead centre, of the Botticelli
Thereby embedding herself
Into everyone else’s photograph
But, as I say, she was so totally unaware
Such that she knows nothing, of her own celebrity
Meanwhile, I sit to write
To make a note of this supreme arrogance
Which, so I understand from television
Is propagated by their leader
Then, lest I forget
To make a note (pun intended)
Of the music exhibition
In the Academie of Sienna
Where, with way less visitors
There is ample space
For care and attention
Even time
To listen to the piano being played
As the lover sings an aria for his lover
