Sometimes I picture your face on money.

    But this isn't Rome， where they know

    what money's worth， which is almost

    the paper it's printed on （a kind of art），

    and where I stared what seemed eternity¹

    into a guidebook， lost， side-skipping

    pigeon past， motorbikes， and swarms²

    of gypsy tykes excavating³ the ruins

    of tourists' pockets， until I stumbled

    onto the Temple of the Golden Arches-

    McDonald's！- and across the piazza⁴，

    the Pantheon…… Inside， third niche⁵ left，

    alone a moment with the Ossa et cineres

    of Raphael， I thought of you； "put it all

    in the poem" was your advice so， okay，

    here you are！ - among the camcorders，

    cell phones， retired⁶ gods， and a pair of

    kings - rumpled⁷， broke， and amused

    as you were the Green Mountain morning

    you asked： among us who was writing

    for posterity⁸？， and one of us knew. Bill，

    I haven't paid you your due， but need

    another favor： could you please undie

    so I can buy you the glass of good

    rosso in the Eternal City I owe you？