Folding Laundry In Rome

Perhaps they were songbirds

squabbling outside

in the trees

They seem not to notice that

the sun engulfs

them and warms their feathers

They squawk in spite of an absence

of the dark and spitting clouds

that until yesterday had plagued

my short Roman Holiday

These birds should be rejoicing,

singing hosannas

Instead, they peck at each other

and I stand inside folding laundry

before it wrinkles.