As dough began to bubble on its pyre,
Fior di latte melted languidly.
The waiter pointed out the oven’s fire,
And my two delighted children begged to see
The bathroom one more time. There’s no accounting
For the tastes of youth. From the open doors,
With music pulsing through the restaurant, in
arrived a delivery man; a pause.
He then began to dance with shuffling feet,
hands and fingers that twirled, sparkled and skipped.
My kids returned: “What are you smiling about?”
I could have said, “Delight, my dears, is wrapped
Inside surprise”—so wise, so clear, and true!
Instead, I said, “Oh, nothing. How’s the loo?”