History is a totem pole, and I am
looking down on it, from the top
of a Roman amphitheater that is
built upon Etruscan foundations.
Below that, nameless skeletons
grimace at the weight on their shoulders.
And one rises up. There is a man
in tattered rags, who looks as ancient
as the stones that surround him,
who emerges from the remains
of an underground tomb, screaming.
Another man appears from behind
an archway, roaring in reply.
Perhaps they are drunks, irritated by
the constant flow of tourists past
their make-shift homes, or maybe,
I consider as I flee past hotels,
mini marts, and billboards in this
most ancient of cities, maybe
history is furious enough
to rise up from its tomb and
scream, and scream, and scream.
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