Just before I fainted in the restaurant that evening,
   I was telling you a story about a madman
   I saw earlier in the day
as I walked home from my ballet class
   just off the Piazza Santa Maria del Carmine.
After crossing the bridge of Santa Tdnita,
   looking in at the Ghirlandaio frescoes
   of the Sassetti family,
then wondering how many women there were
   who were young and rich enough
to wear the see-through lace cowboy shirts
   in the Gianni Versace windows
   on the Via Tornabuoni,
at the intersection of the Via de Calzaioli
   and the Via del Corso,
I walked into the hullabaloo being drummed up
   by a bearded man who was stalking back and forth,
   screaming something in Italian, of course,
   and waving his arms in the air.
But when he turned he would reach down with one hand,
   clamp his crotch,
   and then pull his body around
as though his hips were a bad dog
   and his genitals a leash he was yanking.
After each turn he'd continue stalking and flailing,
   until time to turn again.
So I am trying to explain this and our pizza comes,
   and I saw off a bite, but it is too hot,
so what do I do but swallow it, and it's too hot,
   and I think, it's too hot,
and my voice decelerates as if it is a recording
   on a slowly melting tape and the scene
   in the restaurant begins to recede: