Such sprezzatura they have in their orange jumpsuits!

With their well-coiffed hair and agile movement 
and gallant asides to the ladies, they might

as well be fencing on the battlements 
of the Castel Sant’Angelo, or dancing a quadrille

on the marble floor of a palazzo, as going round
collecting trash. This Wednesday morning,

the driver of a streetsweeper noses down 
the cobblestoned street, singing an off-key aria

out the open window. His partner —cornetto 
in one hand, a twig broom in the other — jabs

distractedly at trash beneath the tables and chairs 
of the sidewalk cafés. They miss a lot,

but together they manage to nudge most 
of the wilted lettuce and trampled fliers

and cigarette butts out of the way. Che importa?		
What they don’t pick up today will be here waiting

for next week’s bravura performance. Encore!  Encore!