We
were sitting by the pool in Rome Discussing the small disappointments of the day -- Why our daughter wouldn't share her lamb, Why the pasta al vongele was bereft of clams -- When the scent of bitter smoke filled the air And a line of fire swept over the ridge behind us, Lashing through the low trees and scrub oleander. A little later we were waiting in line To get a table on the terrace for dinner Talking about a couple things And not talking about a couple dozen other things When my wife suddenly burst into tears And
covered her face with her hand as she Fled
through the polite palms and potted people. What ignites the tinder of our lives, Exploding our dry evasions and Burning down to the things that last A shard of ancient, stony laughter; The need to voice hard thoughts? When we finally arrived at the front of the line, The matre d inquired: "Smoking, or not?" Bruce
Brown |
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