The Romans are proud of their water,
a guide told me years ago. This water,
once brought by aqueducts from the hills now
pours from a spigot on the Via degli Artisti
near our convento, day and night and Romans
and tourists fill their bottles here. But last night
as I passed—there was a bouquet of roses
left beneath the trickle.
                                           What was the story?
Did lovers quarrel?  Did a suitor think better
of the match? Did a romance end on these cobblestones,
only to be watered
not by Rome’s pride,
but by her tears.