Thomas Fitzsimmons

Lounging on a balcony over the azure
meeting of France and Italy, finishing up

with 70 starting 71, having a birthday
by this sea where all the counting started,

waiting for a thought, insight, giggle,
something to mark the occasion, event,

achievement, but as numbers merely follow,
precede others how make of that an occasion

for anything but a glance over
the shoulder a look up the road

to the next corner where if there is
anyone, up-there back-there, was it

will it be you? The answer of course
soon will be no, but now is yes —

you are, the chair is, water is the
blue of ages, and the sun's warmth

mixes with seawind's cool on your skin
under palm tree and passing cloud and

the mountains still shoulder down to a shore
where the Roman temples are no longer.

Poetry