Sometimes I picture your face on money.

But this isn't Rome, where they know
what money's worth, which is almost

the paper it's printed on (a kind of art),

and where I stared what seemed eternity
into a guidebook, lost, side-skipping

pigeon past, motorbikes, and swarms

of gypsy tykes excavating the ruins
of tourists' pockets, until I stumbled

onto the Temple of the Golden Arches-

McDonald's!- and across the piazza,
the Pantheon.... Inside, third niche left,

alone a moment with the Ossa et cineres

of Raphael, I thought of you; "put it all
in the poem" was your advice so, okay,

here you are! - among the camcorders,

cell phones, retired gods, and a pair of
kings - rumpled, broke, and amused

as you were the Green Mountain morning

you asked: among us who was writing
for posterity?, and one of us knew. Bill,

I haven't paid you your due, but need

another favor: could you please undie
so I can buy you the glass of good

rosso in the Eternal City I owe you?

William Matthews, poet and teacher (1942 - 1997)