On the Lawn at the Villa

On the lawn at the villa— That’s the way to start, eh, reader? We know where we stand—somewhere expensive— You and I imperturbes, as Walt would say, Before the diversions of wealth, you and I engagés. On the lawn at the villa Sat a manufacturer of explosives, His wife from Paris, And a young man named Bruno, And myself, being American, Willing to talk to these malefactors, The manufacturer of explosives, and so on, But somehow superior. By that I mean democratic. It’s complicated, being an American, Having the money and the bad conscience, both at the same time. Perhaps, after all, this is not the right subject for a poem. We were all sitting there paralyzed In the hot Tuscan afternoon, And the bodies of the machine-gun crew were draped over the balcony. So we sat there all afternoon.