Image Junkyard #2 (Week Two)

From our table we toasted to ourselves, conquerors of the loose-tongue, the spiced salami on our diavolo. Three broca of beer. But that's a Spoleto slang, the broca. And this country is known for it's wine. Vecchio Papa, our waiter, sees us, though--slightly pitiful and pleasant enough to redeem. In the fold of my pizza I listen to a previous life back in the States, a friend without a story. He believes nothing but the strings of his guitar, and even those he can no longer feel. To say I see differently would sound as all the streets of Rome, all the silence of a cappuccino in the morning.