by Sarah Breisch
Walking out this morning among falling leaves and limb-cutter fumes,
another morning of brisk air and car exhaust was remembered to me:
Rome it was then. Home it is now, and I am not at home.
How I wandered down that limpid green river and past turning cobbly streets,
on the surface aimlessly but in the back of my mind looking
for something more than “looking for a good place to read.”
Short black-coated idiot.
Always skirting those warm enveloping colonnade arms,
but always also part of me turning back over my shoulder towards them.
How like a dog snuffing for his bed,
turning and turning in some disheveled corner,
turning back over his shoulder
to gaze at that warm spot beneath his master’s feet.