The baths at Caracalla
are a Sahara now,
no water I can see for miles;
dry aqueducts arched
in the heat.
My wife and I wonder
how long they flourished,
how long they welcomed
human gods
under assumed names.
My wife says she will love
forever, but already
an arid one or two dozen
arguments scald us,
our hearts dry stone.
At the five star St. Regis
Grand Hotel, Rome,
my Christmas bonus
incinerates.
We remove our shoes
in the royal bath,
shake-out robes
of illicit cashmere
monogrammed with
an Indian chief.
We purge our teeth,
listen for hotel noises
and turn down the comforter
like patients on anesthesia.