(Inventory of a) Once and Still Roman

Almost a year since,
and tonight I’m taking inventory.

I almost smelled the lavender stand

on the way back to our apartment,

the old man who looked fierce

enough to have escaped prison,

who sold the tender, purple silk bags

for 3E each, 2 for 5E.

In Rome, I measured mornings

in street crossings,

the beggar tipping out his hat

on the bridge, the Tiber water

lingering between the quilt-patch

buildings, and the street-line stitches.

In Rome, the poor held
our eyes like steady pools,
so we could see our own
reflection.
Or they bent, head down,
arms cupped, out
like a crucifix

while we watched stiletto
heels striking cobblestone.

Mornings in café freddo, afternoons

in gelato scoops,

(becoming fluent in gelato-speak,
lured into nutella-infatuation.)

Late mornings in sweat,

afternoons in sweat,

showers (feet minimum, cold-med heat,

never hot water),

waking from a siesta in sweat,

evening, walking home, sweat.

Evening, out, ease.

Night: the clatter

of dishes, river of voices,

and bell-chimes of laughter

below our window

as we chased sleep.

Dragging our mattresses
out under the living room AC,
relief.

~

Every city has a birth,

a life,

a death,

I learned.

I measured Rome in years: hundreds,

thousands (as well as any American can).

And days: days passed, days left,

blog days, siesta days, longing for home

moments, hours.

Always a solid eight hours between us—

family, friends,

you,

your morning

or my yesterday.

The way we talked,

words full as a plate of pasta and red wine,

but the slightest—

was it hesitation?

lingered in my mouth,

impossible to trace, as if stained on my fork

before the meal arrived.

It is not the hours that change us

but the places that we grow apart in.

~

Roman time still stretches on today,

even here in Seattle.

Seattle, my home, though sometimes

if one could have a love affair with a city,

I might be tempted

to take Rome in,

undercover,

just for a day.

Rome would smoke his cigar

and tell me about the panino

and bus protests, the heat, and how at night

the Colosseum still fills with its ghosts.

Then Rome would sing

me a song I heard once in a

ristorante, by a man wiping

display windows,

whose deep voice sauntered

for the sake of singing,

or for the afternoon break,

or for living itself.

I practice Rome, still,

by crossing sidewalks illegally

(though it is still best done

with friends, in sandals, in

fear of Vespas).

And sometimes, if given the option,

I’ll take my coffee strong in a

small, porcelain tea cup (mug).

(European size).

~

Every city has

a birth,

a life,

a death.

So goes the saying.

I’ve built my bridges

and pillars via pen—

journals since 1^st grade.

Sometimes, I wonder,

what will happen with them?

Will they become their own Forum?
Will tourists of some kind

sweep in and purge,

pointing with cameras

and sticky fingers,

or will these written memories

be tucked away

like the sacred dead under church

floors, in cemeteries

below

cemetery?

Every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

Rome teaches this most.

Here, we like our hours

clean and sharpened to the minute.

But

for all our archiving

at the end of the day,

our clock hands

still twist toward Roman dust.

~