Memory Is A Losing Game Poem by Bernard Henrie

Sentimental visit to Rome's
Botteghe Oscure,
my fathers first publisher;

stacked boxes of magazines
in the claustrophobic hall.

A cello concert
in a small Church; a buttoned
cloak in the damp palazzo.

Restaurants change to dinner
menus, olive oil on the
sideboard, Armagnac clings
to the tongue.

The doors of the airport bus
open (accordion like): a rush
of mold scented leaves.

The phantom of my father
working a Royal typewriter
40 years ago beside
Trevi Fountain.