Brenda Jones's Rome

I saw some things in a makeshift
Gypsy village in Rome.

Doubtless, there were plenty of others
Just like it, other pockets in other pool tables,
Other holes where things go when they’re
Poked and bumped and beaten down,
But I saw this one.

There were stained barrels used
As pillars and cornerstones for dirty tents.
The canvas probably breathed
Like a lung when the wind went through.

There were four women
All different in age, all sad about something
Different, yet all somehow the same.

There was Anguish, aged and slouching, her face
Crumpled in on itself like old paper.

There was Despair, in mismatched shoes,
Staring with eyes like caves as she made
Tattered fabric into tattered clothes.

There was Fright, her face young
And flat, her body wrapped in blankets, shielding
Herself from something I couldn’t see.

There was a fourth, turned away
From me, turned away from everything.
Somehow I knew she was the most pained of all.

And over their shoulders, just past a wall
And a few busy streets, the Vatican
Winked blades of yellow sunlight at them.

If they turned, they could see its spotless dome.
If it grew eyes and ears and a brain and
A heart, the dome could not see them.

Leaving the place quickly, like glancing
Away from a painting on a wall,
I couldn’t help but hope
That we’d turn out something different
Than our parents.

-Nate Pillman