In the ideal spot for catching up,
we stay until we lose the shade.

Had there been a spare hand for the iPhone
to catch umbrellaed apparitions headed home,

I wouldn’t need a thousand words, more or less,
to picture the sweet success of our grocery run.

When you’re expecting “Buonasera,” a word
too easily confused with the more familiar
“Buongiorno,” a word ready on the tongue,

“Buon ritorno” will throw you for a loop
if spoken by your neighbor, the customed-
made shirt lady from the shop downstairs.

To people the place,
On a night like this.

Closed up and headed for home,
As we’ll be too (and all too soon).

When the local bar is not busy,
i cornetti are served up heated.

Hardly much more than a drop:
the way it looked before it spread
around the far side of the saucer.

Again Grazia heads to replace it.
“No, not…” Rebecca starts to say,
before putting her at ease in Italian.

A sloshed coffee cup, it turns out,
Is a sign of sloth in more than one
Cappuccino joint. Not good enough
Unless it stays put to the last drop.