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What I do in Italy

What I do in Italy is cry and eat a lot of pasta.

What I do in Italy is look at profiles of people 

Who are not my friends

And wish they were

And feel like a stalker.

My father turned off his cuckoo clock.

Thanks, dad.

I want to be back in America

Where I have a lot of friends

But nobody cares that much.

What is it about bathrooms?

The reflective quality of Italian tiles 

Perhaps?

I sit down and sob.

This toilet doesn’t flush,

I used too much paper since my face was dripping.

I want a golden retriever in my bed

She’s outside in her heated dog house.

Being here is like leaving all your boyfriends at once

Being here 

Equals being somewhere else already

In your snowy city

Where the only one

Who loves you

Is a cat.

Showing recklessness

Is hardly proof of greatness.

It’s proof of faulty logic,

I don’t believe in budgets

Or outlines.

A foreseen disaster

When there is shortage of money

And time,

Which is what happens in this era

That starts now.

I’m less efficient than

a washing machine from the fifties.

This very important thing that I am doing

(You know: horses and cowboys and vikings)

Is really nothing,

Nothing at all.

It’s 1:30 AM

It isn’t late at all back home

But I need to sleep.

This body needs things

I don’t subscribe to.

My mind,

My mind should learn from this body,

Know when it’s time to let go.