The Diary of Melanie Martin (14 page)

Out the window I can see mountaintops! Maybe if I look closely I can see that Michelangelo marble.

Michelangelo lived to be almost ninety. Raphael and Caravaggio died young.

I admit I'm more curious about them now than I used to be. I might even let Mom take me to the Metropolitan Museum.

Might.

Or to the Frick Museum. Mom once said kids are not allowed to go until they're ten years old. Which I now am.

I hope there are no air pockets up here.

But maybe when you are going places, there are always pockets in the air or bumps in the road or thorns on the path.

Man, oh, man, I am a regular philosopher.
Unfortunately, I'm supposed to be a poet!

I've been doodling yin-yangs and peace signs and smiley faces, but it's rhyme time.

Thirty lines.
This could take hours.
I have hours.

I just came back from the bathroom, and I was going to ask Mom to play Hangman. I was going to try to stump her with “gypsy” or “lynx” because she always guesses the a e i o u vowels first. But one look at Mom, and I could tell she didn't want to play any games. She told me to “buckle up and buckle down.”

So here I go. Ready or not.
From the one and only—

Dear Diary,

Hip hip hurray!

I did it!

I came up with thirty lines!

We've been to Rome. We're going home
.
It's sad that I Must say good-bye
.
And so for now I'll just say, “Ciao.”

The cats were all cute
In Italy's boot
.
The Colosseum was cool
.
Each church was a jewel
.
It's good Sistine's ceiling
Is no longer peeling
.

I walked along narrow streets
,
Italian shoes on my feets
.
I liked the pizza and Uffizi
,
But waiting on line was not too easy. I liked Lucca's old stone walls. I hope Pisa's tower never falls
.

My family now has a motto
.
It's this: “Who wants gelato?”
I learned a few Italian words
.
Matt learned to chase Italian birds
.
I'm glad for my father and my mother
And even for my little brother
.

We're landing now—I'm out of time—
I better finish up my rhyme
.
I feel lucky to be a Martin
.
It's a fine family to have a part in
.
Here comes the last line of this verse:
It's not Dante, but it could be worse!

Poetically yours,

Dear Diary,

I showed my poem to Dad. I thought he'd say, “Good job.” But he kind of snickered at some of the rhymes and pronounced the whole thing “Cute.”

Cute?

Again?

I showed my poem to Mom. I can tell what Mom is thinking no matter what she says.

She read the poem and said, “You finished it. Thirty lines.”

I knew that meant she thought it was dog doo.
“Why don't you like it?” I asked.
“I do like it, Melanie.”
She stayed quiet, so I said,

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