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There is a man
in my square.
He saunters, he struts,
he stares.

Dressed in white with gold Ray Bans –
the 70s kind that make you cringe –
his steps are fueled by his attention binge.

I can see him sprawled out on his wedding bed
his mind and his body filled with heated dread
following his afternoon sleep brought on by pasta and wine
as he begins to rise, rubbing his creased, sweat-filled brow with scratchy white linen.

He smokes, a cigarette dangles from his loose lips.
His head darts, skimming the Foschi crowd at aperitivi time.
He salutes with a hand held close to his hip
Or waves slightly more animatedly with a wink of an eye.
But then, just then, he catches her eye
And off with a cinematic swoop come the gilded Ray-Bans,
His cigarette drops and is squished by his outdated, pointy-toed, summer lace-ups.

Buona sera, bella,
His eyes dancing up and down and up with a pinpointed scan,
How gorgeous we are tonight, he hums
And they scan once again.

And along comes his wife with the gorgeous green hair.
How stark the distinction between brainless and smart,
How completely ridiculous he seems playing his part.
And with grace and confidence she takes her leave
While he trails after, a tiny boy in an ill-fitting linen suit.