I hid my hair under a hat and sat
cross-legged on the Spanish Steps,
probably the only person remembering
Keats underneath his window. Fountains
and Christmas lights competed with
dancing animals covered in jewels
in store windows, as laconic chestnut
roasters watched American pockets
get picked. The sun sets early in Rome
in late November, and with cinnamon
gelato an afternoon memory I headed
for church, to hear opera and settle
myself for the long flight home.
No comments:
Post a Comment