"Roma Termini--" termini, termini.
It's the end station in Rome.
If you say it in Italian, it sounds more interesting.
The woman she looks like was a woman
he'd been crazily in love with 40 years ago
who hadn't loved him but once was tempted enough, or kind
enough, or cruel enough to kiss him in front of her door
with a passion that has lasted all these years.
And at the end, "someday maybe" is what she said.
Her umbrella yellow, her lipstick bright red, gleaming.
Not a year has been added to her years.
Too late, too late.
Now you who believe you have outgrown
the juvenilia of your dreams observe this man.
He stands by himself on a station platform,
still waiting for his kiss, overwhelmed
by the small damages our histories do to us, how memory
retards us with its generous gifts,
then when it most matters, takes them back.