Your great-aunt Sydney went to Europe twice—once
to Paris where the food was lousy and the Louvre
depressing; and London where they wouldn’t let her, 
or Abe, touch the Elgin Marbles which were, you know,
carved by a British Lord. Later, they’d try Rome—
You know what you can do with their spaghetti!—
and Florence. At I Tatti, Bernard Berenson 
didn’t bother to come out to meet them. 
She didn’t think much of BB anyway: Big deal—
a dirty old man in a dirty old house,
who got buried by the Pope! she said.
When you graduated from art school, she pulled me
aside and pinched my arm hard, demanding 
How the hell will he make a living?