It’s such a shame
We speak different languages
We miss small niceties,
Sitting at two tables alone.
His lovely turn of phrase, with a wink
Italian, I think.
He said something nice,
I am sure,
But I will never really know.
His smile, his gentle eyes,
Gave it away, in kind.
His grey hair, with a wave,
His pasta and wine,
His bow-tie divine.
His olive skin with lines.
My shrug,
His look resigned.
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