A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.
It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human.
The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things.
