Rome Unit I

Roy William Scranton

1. What doesn’t mean “now”?

2. An old man, a young man, a dead man, a white man.

Guns, suns, and sons.

Light coming through the trees.

3. Woolen pants and caps and trolleys. Who we are and then when we were and what it means to be an American in or away from America.

4. Front matter. I intend vandalism.

5. How is it possible to think of her for this, who she is, what it means? Pro forma? Did she say thank you and show gratitude in her kiss?

6. There are no real people in this volume.

7. Plan-of-Attack.

8. Basement library in Manhattan on a warm summer day wet with sudden rain. Read about it on the internet, check your phone for messages. I’d say I know—someone I know—must be in Baghdad on a second or third tour now, but I lost track of all those guys, Sergeant Bobby, Porkchop, Faison. Processed out two years ago but that was just the start of any “processing” I had to do, any curled fist and straight back, any stern eye watching bloused boots. Hey kid, I’m a computer. Bad for fundamental integrity. I know less what it means as I go, and think about contingency and speed. I think about rockets in midtown.

9. Sit down to read; to study; to watch; to absorb; to take in; to receive. True Tales of Adventure. One time our sailors said, “Chap, sir, that always did the trick.” Think of white-capped peaks clear against the blue sky, the high pass and clear air. Brackish ocean water. Clapboard door slamming against the frame.

10. What does it mean, “time”? What does it mean, “our”?