In Roma

A poem

Photo by the author

All roads lead away from here,
where cleanliness diverges sharply
from godliness, bending nature
to the will of man-

broken aqueducts & cigarette butts
wedged like dirty bones
between the polished mosaic stones
of these metropolitan curves,

these hills where chariots once rolled,
now gilded with the intermittent glow
of shop lights competing for glances
from tourists more interested in phones.

But, look, just past those dumpsters
overflowing with trash,
the colossal rim of the coliseum
gleams gold in the gloaming!

Be amazed. Your privilege was invented here,
born in the blood of bloodied men
who were bought and sold.
Their cries still echo from coast to coast,

the cost of achievements
too numerous to hold, and forgotten,
turned into museums for pretty things,
and chiseled names erased.

The wind rushes through the parasol pines,
bringing the scent of the sea,
as I raise my glass of deep red wine
and listen vainly for the voices

of the many who came before me,
their warnings lost, unheeded.