Once & Still Roman

(draft 2)

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 panini

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.

Rome, you re-arranged me,

I would say after his song

simmered to a whisper.

Then he would lean back in his chair

and take a long, slow puff of his cigar.

Go on.

Well, I don’t quite know how to

put myself back together again,

Before I met you, I didn’t understand that

every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

First, I measured in you in mornings:

the beggar on the bridge,

the dogs at the water spigot,

the quilt-patch buildings, and the stiches

of street lines.

And in Roman nights:

the old man with the thick arms

of an ex-convict,  

who sold tender, silk bags

of lavender for 3€ each, 2 for 5€.

And below my window,

the women in stiletto,

the clatter of dishes, a river of voices,

and bell-chimes of laughter

as I chased sleep.

Then I learned to measure you in vino rosso years,

in hundreds, even thousands (as well as any American can).

vino rosso, meaning: the perfect blend

of bitter and seduction,

in which the glass is never emptied,

in which I implored of saints and of billboards,

of ruins and of vespas.

In which I watched your thousand deaths

and rebirths with aching fingers,

the words in my journal crumbling and moaning

like a drunkard trying to paint

an angel.

I also measured you in vino bianco days:

delicate, siesta days,

when my eyes felt heavy with sleep,

and I sat in the balcony to watch

our neighbor’s clothesline flicker

in the warm breeze,

and my American home was just a yawn

and a cat’s stroll away.

Rome, you seduced me with your white wine

days. You re-arranged me

while he waited.

The way he and I talked,

words full as a plate of pasta,

but the slightest—

was it hesitation?

lingered in my mouth,

impossible to trace, as if stained on my fork

before the meal arrived.

We spoke of the lover’s locks

clasped to the Ponte Milvio bridge.

But I never leaned to drown

a key in those brown, eternal waters.

Maybe then I knew

our kisses were collecting dust.

Every city has

a birth,

a life,

a death.

So goes the saying.

And I see you, Rome,

in my city and in myself.

I still cross sidewalks illegally,

and if given the option,

I’ll take my coffee strong in a

small, porcelain tea cup.

And I see your bridges

and crumbling pillars in my

poems.

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

cemeteries?

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.