Here, where it is so easy to dance,
the whole street moves in solidarity
with the silver-haired couple performing
a living room waltz across a public square,
feet crossing and twisting and crossing back
to the sultry sounds of the swaying cellist
and his violin friend, playing not for money
but for the love of it, and of these streets
nestled below the chiming bell-tower,
where fountain water rushes out,
flowing onto marble steps pulsing with life
while old ladies in matching scarves shuffle by
in time with skipping school children
laughing in harmony, and even the prison next door
pounds out La Traviata because here,
where it is so easy to dance,
the whole street moves.