At sunset I water the pots on the terrace
left by Brother Gardener who’s off to Ireland
where God waters everything almost all the time.
But here in Rome, God is busy elsewhere
(perhaps across the Tiber in the Pope’s office).

But here, I fill the plastic watering can and visit
each pot: the lemon tree, which has grown very pretty
with sweet flowers indeed, tho’ no fruit to sample
for bitter;  the abundant basil with leaves to rub
and sniff for memories; the mint likewise
(perhaps a leaf to chew); the peppers planted
(but not picked, for they will not yet yield a peck)
by Jan Dominik, somewhere off in Slovenia
and the 14th century; and the many other pots
whose plants poets perhaps know—but I do not.                                                                     
                                                                                          Being ignorant
of what graces this rooftop garden at sunset
where gulls circle in their nightly conference, commenting
on tourists who suffered the day’s heat. The noisy conclave
ignores me. They have a better view of the sunset.