Polite in Trieste

If I were truthful,
I would describe his gentle fingers,
slender like rice leaves,
swirling his pen, one hand
in rhythmic motion, the other
slipping beneath the cafe table,
sliding with an easy touch
across her quivering thigh.

But no, those words cannot
be said. So instead,
“They sat across from one
another and talked
about poetry and plays
while wondering why
the latte was taking so
long but not caring
if it took all day.”

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