toward home

turning toward home

i walk collar up, huddled in random, quiet thought

amid the turmoil of cobblestoned old roma

tempered by the ages

of michelangelo, bernini,

shelly, keats,

and fellini

“oh, marcello” laments sophia

these weary streets are covered by now silent footsteps

put down through the ages

between some dusted grey buildings

nearly black, unattended

or vulgared in dashes by modern signage

how swiftly leaps time

day and night swing over

venders, thieves, beggars

in alleys

swarmed with map-clad tourists

while around thunder large buses and sirens

and all passersby suck exhaust

above are broken shutters, some missing

weather worn graffiti scratched in stone

potted plants on high-railed private terraces face the sky so as to look away from it all