by David O'Meara

Not the intricate engineering wrought
by antiquity that impresses me; not
the modern touch of electric pumps and tubes.
Not the micturation of famous cherubs,

or efflux from a fish's Gillespie spout.
Not the lilies cloying there. Don't think about
them, or the rusting pennies that tourists
threw, or the ones clutched now, tightly, in their fists.

Not the marble General in his stirrups,
or the midnight reflection of the moon.

Just this pool that's stirred by the double spoon
of brassy, half-dressed lovers, in their cups.

David O'Meara currently lives in Ottawa, Ontario where he is working on a new collection of poems. His first book is called "Storm still." 

• fiction
• poetry
• nonfiction