Sometimes I picture your face on money.
But this isn't Rome， where they know
what money's worth， which is almost
the paper it's printed on （a kind of art），
and where I stared what seemed eternity
into a guidebook， lost， side-skipping
pigeon past， motorbikes， and swarms
of gypsy tykes excavating the ruins
of tourists' pockets， until I stumbled
onto the Temple of the Golden Arches-
McDonald's！- and across the piazza，
the Pantheon…… Inside， third niche left，
alone a moment with the Ossa et cineres
of Raphael， I thought of you； "put it all
in the poem" was your advice so， okay，
here you are！ - among the camcorders，
cell phones， retired gods， and a pair of
kings - rumpled， broke， and amused
as you were the Green Mountain morning
you asked： among us who was writing
for posterity？， and one of us knew. Bill，
I haven't paid you your due， but need
another favor： could you please undie
so I can buy you the glass of good
rosso in the Eternal City I owe you？