Brown water laps against stone then retreats.
Spurred on by caffe nero, we drink each other up.
The piazza rings with fifteen arias in a row.
It’s our very own personal auditorium.
It’s Rome. We walk from one show to another.
So romantic. Even footsteps feign a kiss on the lips.
And it’s dramatic. A gust of wind is a thrust to the heart.
We slowly walk beside the long canal like we’re drinking it.
Its water’s not clear but you get that that way when you’re ancient.
Our hands join then drop as we pass by a squabbling couple.
But then they join as our thoughts align. We laugh.
Even anger sounds like foreplay in a foreign tongue.