In the city of seven hills,
rain rattles like a bead curtain.
Stones gleam in the wet.
The cobbled alleys blow empty
as we maze our way back,
cocked for the echo of voices
from another street.
We cliche our cliche as we cliche,
collect another image for a European scrapbook —
thoughts and ideas I do not want to forget,
what has been seen and written a multitude of ways,
thought not by me.
And I lie here in bed,
trucks rumbling in the street and
the sound of someone’s footsteps inthe hall,
and try to write Hemmingway’s one true thing.
The one thing about it that’s true.