Our February before the Fall

 

 

In an Italian restaurant

in Buenos Aires,

the white-clad waiter

says to us, three men

at a four-person table,

three men, two of them

bearded, two of them

balding, all of them slower

and thicker than when they

first met almost twenty years

ago.

He says to us, “What part of this earth

are you from?”

He is innocent, it seems.

He probably thinks we are gay

and in a very normal sense,

we aren’t even happy.

His English is broken, his outfit

is crisp and immaculate.

We tell him we are from the

United States and, less than a

year before planes will strike towers,

we imagine what it is like to be

a part of the earth.

A fine part of the earth,

with freedom and fantasy

and Italian restaurants

with broken American dialects

for all.

He nods with our answer

serves us well

and asks no more questions.

 

 

              Copyright © Gary Ciocco, 2006