Each Italian town has a carnival,
just for winter, merry-go-rounds
with unlicensed Disney characters
or less than pristine Sistines
trimmed with molded plastic curtains.
I sat cross-legged on a bench, gelato
spoon clutched firmly in my glove,
as children in well-made coats toddled
headfirst toward a hilltop carousel.
In that moment, not going anywhere,
I had the unblemished freedom
of my own narration.
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