The King of Italy

In ragged, twine-belted trousers

- and a velveteen waistcoat -

he has the air of a man

who chooses mismatched shoes.

He doesn’t look at the trilby

on the cracked pavement,

just down his nose at passers-by

as they toss him their centesimi.

When the Carabinieri come -

like an officer in mufti,

he serves them a nod

as they pass by in review.

Most days he has a delivery box

containing the queen of pizzas:

with his very own Margherita,

he’s the King of Italy.