Literary Archeology: Poems I've Yet to Write

From an overlook near the quiet beach
at Capri, that side opposite its rock
and boulder coastline that stares
toward once buried Pompeii,
its Roman past leveled,
elite and imprisoned alike
preserved together in volcanic ash,

I spot her, young, attractive,
alone, with a book, aloof in sunglasses,
her regal cabana fit for only one,
a sophisticated match for Sargent's
favorite model, Rosina.

Buon giorno!
She looks up.  "May I?" I'm sure
she's been schooled in English.
She does not refuse.
I drop to one knee.
"American?" she asks.

I say, "I have poems for you,
for the woman I think you are."
I pull my verse, folded,
from my shirt pocket.

"I compare your beauty
to the Sorrentine sun, your skin
to this smooth wet sand, but your eyes..."

I motion to her glasses.
I tell her what they hide, poetry
she hordes, stark
periods on my page, lines
locked in their world
like frozen women of Pompeii.

(c)B. Koplen          11/2009