262 – In a Small Mtn Town

In A Small Mtn Town

His fork worked a slow circle
against the spoon
turning pasta bolognese
into something he could fit
inside his mouth. He said
his father’s dead. Four months.
He sipped vino tinto
waiting for the translation
slowly unraveling
towards comprehension.
We sat in silence
and then called the waiter
for more wine.

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