Up and down this unfamiliar road
the hills changing shapes as I drive
so the moon has to rise
again and again as they do...
which reminds me of Old Age
which I can also
sometimes glimpse from here. See,
and fear. See and fear.
The older I get the farther back
I go at times like this
for company. Ovid, exiled,
wrote scathingly about the undercultured oafs
he lived with in Tomis;
flattered and wheedled,
but never got to go home. Cicero,
proscribed, rode around Rome in a litter.
Go ahead, he taunted Caesar's soldiers,
stopping on purpose to annoy them. Pulling
back the curtains
pointing to his grizzled head,
I'm Cicero, he said. Give it your best shot.