We were training down the Italian Coast
around this time last year, my friend
through the heart of Tuscany
pulling on in a rainstorm
into a green castled field
Remember out desperate cravings for writing
in forgotten plazas and miscellaneous flights of stairs?
furiously wandering at the pace we set each day
What a time it was, what a time!
And when we got to Rome - because our roads lead there –
we set eyes on the end of the world at night
at dawn, the Travesteria not once but twice
never ending steps up, up, up more grand
overlooking the city and its vastness
searching for the seven hills
through the smell of cigars and sounds of bustling
vendors, people, footsteps
Ours just another beat to the drum
on a drummed on city
This we spoke of too, not in Italy but
at the old thinking rock
in front of the Alcazar,
or the gardens in Parc Guell, or
a bus whisking us away until the next time.
