Roman Playgrounds
Only one swing stands in Servian Rome
a gate and painted fence guard
where it waits in the fossa
– grass-choked –
of an ancient bathhouse exedra
At the peak of each swing
a crown nods
up and down on the Colossal skull
severed by a sidewalk from the Foro Romano
A tree-lined street stops at Aventine’s top
in a round park with this stray dog
so keen to chase cones
his grinning lips drip red
In our hunt for that swing
we find a door locked tight of iron and oak
with notes from a fete to hint us in
so we peek
through the keyhole to see what awaits
Past an old stone arch wobble balls of light
to mar the sunset skyline of St. Paul’s
looming like summer
over other dusky duomo
We crave to join the masquerade
that sang us to this place
but only empty masks remain
staring from tabletops
while withered ribbons swing in the wind
