A Texan in Ancient Rome

She is as meaningful as a cat
swimming across the Tiber; some
strange incarnation inching her way
along the Palatine low-bending to the
commoners, or saluting her salve with
the proverbial southern drawl.

A catastrophe along the catacombs,
a freshly raped slave girl sucking back
blood, or a cowboy rerouting a truck route
into the senate building.

Men wear toga's here, with a pair of
awkwardly self centered cowboy boots
buckling along the roots of a thousand
spinster whores, dogs peeling back
the fresh staccato sun-heat, forefathers
fainting in the cold thunder storms
ushering in the ides of March,

though she was once just a girl,

now something else,
something stranger,
newer, agape, from the anthropomorphic
egalitarian, shorter skirts, eye roll
of one more thorn stippled into her
thumb, awaiting the numb of history
to find her, take her like a lighter lover,
a man who could pick her up, and hold her
there in his sweaty hand, just to lay there
with a rumor of ill repute on her tongue,
savoring the meaning, because no one
else knows what the hell it could all mean,

but there were cock fights where
there should have been democracy,
and the hypocrisy of her is hypnotizing,

something that you can't keep your eyes
on, being that it moves faster than the far
cry of the fight that drizzled from her eyes
slowly.

A thigh is a wrist is an eyeball is a scream -
a prodigal daughter is not always who she seems.