These are not some low-caste untouchables
washing their rags in the Ganges river.
They leave their dirty underwear for fools
to pick up, waiting for nuns to deliver
fettuccine all’Alfredo, which they
refuse to eat, demanding roasted goat.
Like fetid garbage they befoul broad day,
complaining of bad service; smile and gloat
how they had crossed il mare. How they cast
the weak to sharks is never in their story.
Now they carouse at the patina feet
of poor Giordano Bruno. They cling fast
to bright skirts with black eyes in Campo de Fiori,
mandarins beloved by the elite.