To a Roman Lar
You're always free, and I live nearby
so I cut through the soot brick appartments to visit you
in the quiet of the gallery. Stone lions
guard the street where torn-coated winos gather
to wait for the bus or sprawl out on park benches.
But your eyes gaze into another world
hanging by the famous 'Dorophoros', a simple-lined
household god taken out of the home and made
a guest in this illustrious hotel.
There is a vagueness to your beauty that is fair
a timelessness about your smile, the lighter shade
subtly suggesting a breast. You stand on heels
feet pointing away in opposition
as if you were hovering...
They say you are from Pompeii, and that the vine
above your shoulder, broken off into the frame
indicates you once belonged to a larger picture
on some laborer's wall in the suburbs. But I
think you are complete, and still can see
your Roman wife as she stood by the fire
baking cakes on the hearth, pouring wine, singing,
expecting her husband soon, lightly adjusting
her tunic as she looked out the door
at that misty, peaceful mountain she never dreamed
would not stay so.
