(The toss of a coin)
Morning fresh.
Morning fresh.
Heat not yet risen.
Gentle fragrances abound. Summer scents, hints only.
We retrace our steps to Trevi,
to return before the hoards and claim this as our own.
The fountain silent now.
Cascading stilled.
The city workers clean the pools.
Reclaim the coins tossed the night before.
Bagged up and given to the needy.
Eerie in this stillness. Beautiful.
You tossed a coin last night.
By a single twist of that cosmic coin,
we are the tourists
and they the needy.
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