We meet in Rome
where Keats died
just next to the Spanish steps.
We find ourselves
(completely a coincidence)
sitting next to each other
on the steps of the Met
watching the old lady feed the pigeons
or the Goth girls laughing and
eating ice cream cones.
Ageless, we take our coffee
and more often, our cocktails
through veranda doors
overlooking an ocean.
Any ocean will do.
We sit across from one another
talking for a bit
of German poets, politics,
and football.
You will work on one of your paintings
and I will work on my poetry
or we will walk through some cathedral or temple
depending on where our ocean is.
When the lights go out
there is nothing separating us.
When there is a choice
you reach for me every time.
