The Center is the Loneliest
by Gabriel Plata
I know the descendants of Romans
Are a sun-glassed bustle. Among the weaving
Feet are twisting skirts like flames.
Actually, I’ve never been to Rome, but I’d hide
A swallow-full of espresso behind my teeth and
I’d sit on scalding steps to hear the soft
Breathing of a pictured saint, or my grandmother
Kneeling—only to catch the glint
Of sunglasses. There you are. I’ve caught you
Pretending again. Skirts don’t clap in the wind here.
I don’t hear playing cards flap on bicycle rims.
Who are you, lying in the middle
Of my mind? I know you’re walled and sweating.
Come out of the sun, and return to me.