The Spanish Steps

I know nothing about this monument.
This is Italy, but apparently
the steps habla español.
This tourist book tells me
that John Keats wrote poetry near here;
I would’ve written a poem as I sit here too,
but Keats was a poet.
He allowed the Roman scenery
to absorb his last few moments,
to soak up his life.

From these steps, I imagine
a strong wind kicking up,
lifting Keats up
and carrying him west
into the countryside
and then farther out
to the Mediterranean.
He waves as he floats swiftly
above his good friend Percy Shelley,
who is trawling the depths
of the sea for inspiration.
Percy waves also,
but not as a greeting:
His boat is sinking
and he’s trying to alert Keats.
Soon he is swallowing too much seawater
And needs help.

Keats can’t come down, though,
the wind is controlling his voyage,
so he watches as Shelley sinks like a rock.
Besides, he couldn’t deny his friend the pleasure
of sharing his same fate:
lungs filling with fluid;
expiring in the middle of conjuring
the perfect iamb.