Spanish Steps

Spanish Steps

The September sun pulls
beads of sweat from my brow
and I can still smell Beatrice
on my skin as I thumb through
a worn volume of Keats.
I want to stop time;
to savor this moment
and the memory of her skin
intermingled with my own.

The Piazza is alive
and so am I, and maybe
for the first time I know
what happiness feels like:
The smile of a woman,
the taste of her lips
and a warm Chianti
shared in the darkness
of a Roman night.

SMG

Buon Compleanno

Buon Compleanno

It rained on All Saints’ Day
and I think it was your birthday
some nine time zones to the west.

Missing you feels different
in Italian; more tragic I guess.
Persi amore, o rammarico.

You told me you’d wait for me
but we both knew it was a lie;
a self-preservation you allowed me.

I wonder when it all will end;
the girls, the boys and the lies
told to faceless lovers in the dark.

For now the Eternal City calls me
and I imagine you are still asleep,
some nine time zones to the west.

SMG

Reflection

Reflection

I stood on the Ponte Milvio overlooking the Tiber,
and watched as it carved through the travertine
and sandstone of the millennium. As the sun set
I could see the dome of St Peter’s wax and wane
through bird shadows cast in waves of evening flight.

Time passes without emotion between the seven hills
and the water flows without memory; from Le Vene
to the Tyrrhenian Sea. Here we are old and young,
Christian, pagan and Muslim, world wise and weary.
I have never seen a clear reflection off the Hudson,
but from this vantage point I can glimpse eternity,
in the tarnished majesty and endurance that is Rome.

SMG