Dinner in Little Italy

The skin on your palm is just as soft as the girl’s hand I used to hold so many months ago.

I find pockets of happiness in the hard rasp of stubble against my jaw as I kiss you once and then again;

they are little mountains along the dips of your flesh.

The way the hard lines of your upper right arm clack into my shoulders as we walk

side by side down this sidewalk matches the beat of the city.

Cargo trucks whoosh past us pouring smoke into our faces and

smoking cigarette exhaust forces its way into our lungs.

Later we share pizza and string spaghetti onto our forks just like any other couple.

The only difference is that there are two pairs of men’s shoes kicking

at each other under the table instead of high heels and loafers.

We fight and throw newspapers at each other just like my parents did this morning.

We flirt with each other by massaging swollen fingers with eucalyptus oil

just like my parents did last week.

We are human and in love.

We are as valid as everyone else.


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