Este II

Through the archway,

around the brick walls

guarding a castle

that’s no longer there,

even in October

it’s still hot and dusty,

a stray cat chases lizards

up the rocks and I

follow Via Byron to

the house he rented

to Shelley, Mary, Claire,

and their latest dying

infant. An old Italian man

and his disabled son walk

by, and he tells me Byron

never lived there. I know

men like to educate

so I thank him and smile.

I nap on the grass in the sun,

in Este, almost 200 years

too late for Shelley, but

my phone vibrates and

a very real man

has sent me a poem.