Villa Borghese, Roma
On the packed metro, I hide my hands,
dirt under the nails,
fine calcium particles
from the crushed shells of landsnails I've pulled
all week from fava leaves
and thrown overhand to wilder
parts of the field.
No fields, but shade by the aranceria,
and the artificial lake
glimmers under lazy rowers.
Here, regularly, men
in fitted business clothes
sleep on benches midday.
Were I not who I am,
I could lay, stick, un-
curl; words to indicate
more than survival
now is possible.
Instead of sleep, a sandwich
wrapped in white paper.
Roman men don't look away
when you stare back.
I wish I had something
to cover my shoulders.
All afternoon, European sirens wail.
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