In Amalfi, I am told,
nights don’t feel as lonely as they do in Central Square.
(He whispers stories in my ears like the
sea slips songs into conch shells.)
His father was a fisherman, and as a boy he’d linger
by the pale, lapping water.
(I ask if he was scared; he does not understand.
Scared of what? My father was right beside me.)
I had a dog when I was younger who
drowned in a lake by my home. My father used a burlap sack, secured with twine.
(On Sunday he buys coffee beans,
wrapped carefully in canvas.)
In Amalfi, he tells me, we will walk beneath
starlight, not streetlamps.
(I tell him there are stars here too, in hiding.)