I see much from this height
grape leaves wave like nailed palms
and my toes are sprouting flies.

Here on the road from Rome to Capua
rock propped crosses tilt
every hundred feet.

My comrades and I sag on their arms
sun-blackened sacks
dragging a foul southern wind.

Crassus and his legions
marched down these cobbles months ago
leaving trash at the roadside, and us.

Now only merchants pass in groaning carts,
no longer pinching their noses
with hands over bellies, they snore

Again this wind, the sky
wipes it's greasy face
my tatters flap like rotten flags.

And I almost hear the shouts
of thousands, thunder
as my hands shred on the nails.

I drop face first in Roman dust.

Do not misunderstand
I have no regrets, a gladiator's days
are whittled on a stick.

But dreams, they rattle in the skull
like dice, even now they return.

Bony old men shaking the gate
no where else to spend the night.