Junkyard Image #3 (Week Four)

The outskirts of Bologna. A cured deer leg, three kinds of lasagna. Wine worth more than dinner. A man tells me I should forget teaching--move over to Italy and start as a bar tender. But I worry the language. He laughs a fuck it--says the only worry will be between Italian men and my knickers. I don't know if I should say thank you or turn him down. So I slump into the red legs of my wine--let his attention divert to guitar strings and a mic. Later I'd ride up a mountain with his son on a Vespa. He'd show me the view, introduce the cats to my arms--teach me to say the Italian names correctly, syllable-to-syllable. On the way back to Bologna, he stopped at a waterfall--surprised me with the sound of something beautiful, tucked inside of itself. I admit he held my hand, led me down by the bank, put my hand in the water, offered his jacket. He even suggested we sit down for a while, talk Italian and English to each other. It should have been romantic. But I said you were waiting for me, back at the train station and we should go.