by Charlie Millar

During our landmark week
in that panelled flat
overlooking the Spanish Steps
All You Need Is Love,
flower sellers,
carozzas fleecing Americans,
we took turns to sleep on the
sofa in the hall or in the bed
above the room where Keats died.
The old codger
in his grey
nylon tuxedo
and brilliantine parting
imparts tales
of those last gasping days.
We store up sonnets, artichoke
hearts, porcini in olive oil.
Burnt coffee, soul kitchen.