A Poem For A Tuesday

Face to Face in Rome

by Constance Brewer

I wander Via Flaminia,

weave my way deep into

the guts of Bella Roma,

turn at random until I leave

this idle March behind.

Citizens vanish, fading two

by one until I am alone

on a narrow-cobble street

receding into ancient alley.

I stretch my hands apart

as if crucified, brush white-

washed stone left and right,

trail my fingers over

the persistence of centuries.

A final turn. The path dead

ends. Grimy brick towers

over head high enough

to enforce my insignificance.

Before me, in the center

of the oft-mortared wall,

three bullet holes.

.