The sun shines on an oil slick at the bottom of the reservoir

But a new wind is rolling slowly in from Rome.

Don’t lift it, don’t turn your nose up in bigotry. Try

To laugh as ten Parisian men would at the sight of one of their countryman milking a cow.

This shampoo may stop dandruff, but when your boot

Comes off in a mudslide you’ll wish you’d never disparaged

The winds of Italy, and pray for their return. For one Italian hurricane

You’ll sacrifice lambs, or fast, or curse your friends with hemorrhoids.

When I met him, he was girlish, but now he’s older and a pacifist.

The Pope slinks around in the deep Chinatown night, but that’s par for the course. At his age, it’s not unusual

To want to tie-up any number of sticky murders. “How many have I drowned?!