Lunch with an Italian

Gray as parmesan  
an olive dullness  
wipes the day's mouth  
songbirds hide in mirror cracks  
my little boy nervous  
trembles to their tune  
and the rain outside  
expertly strangles hope  
 
She is late  
and at our banquet of dust  
she begs beneath the table  
for a bone picked clean by time  
one too many lunches ago  
 
I notice even a memory  
settles sparks upon  
this driest starveling soul  
I might still ignite her flame  
although my heart is blind to trophies  
hoarding no more morsels  
to throw  
 
She eats slowly  
& I still pay the check--  
our years apart have taught me this