on a side street burrowed deep
off touristed San Marco, dusty relics
beckon in a shop no larger
than a footprint. I join the urbane owner,
a musician -- hair like Mozart, an artist
in a paint-daubed smock, discussing
Nietzsche, Modigliani, the cafes
in Genoa and Istanbul.  We toast
with sangiovese in styrofoam.
Cento di questi giorni!
a wish for a hundred of these days.

This poem first appeared in Poppy Road Review.
Used here with the author's permission.