Rome

Caesar said
Young men, hear an old man
to whom old men hearkened
when he was young.

//

I met my father at the edge of opposition
submerged in a
Portland phone booth, paging through
I, Claudius like a devout nobody.
Yet, every prayer mouthed in his name comes true.

//

Since 1962, my father has been
an old, old man. There’s nothing
he doesn’t know except for how
to lay bricks crookedly.

//

I met another man,
who has difficulty measuring distance,
at the edge of my palm. The spear
he carried before he knew me was orange.

//

He hears color with his fingers.

//

In many ways, men have taught me
the art that is falling. In many ways,
I have become both Rome
and its dirt.

//

He said
Listen to the yellow.
It’s been listening to you, you know.

Afterall, with your laugh,
Rome would’ve built itself by lunchtime.