A flaking wall of sun-struck yellow
Peeling paint of a once green door
Ceaseless purple blue beat and pour
Of waves who eat and then retreat
From the restaurant of the shore
A waiter sets your place at the cafe,
the crude cut vegetables of the day
still raw as the day you were born,
Wine, scarlet as blood, half vinegar,
lemon afternoon of a half sliced bay
and chipped light of a common carafe.
As always you’ll hear the hesitation
Of the aged before they speak quietly
their humility of doubt in front of history;
how they weigh each fragile word
knowing centuries separate us, join us.
How many times, in how many tongues,
can chef open this simple door to you?
- the Sicilian dialect for 'Let's Go!'