Waiting for a seafood salad
at the Fontana Di Trevi,
I was quieted by what I could see
of falling Cherry blossoms
outside the restaurant window.

I watched them drop, petal by petal.
A lonely silence descended
as I sipped a chilled glass
of Sauvignon Blanc.

My reverie was interrupted.
A couple, still in their teens,
sat with arms stretched across the table,
allowing their hands to touch.

Maybe they weren’t Americans.
He still had his dumbo ears,
and she was dumpy
with prominent breasts
and an oversize nose to match.

Their eyes were locked in an embrace.

A zingy fragrance arose from their table,
like a bouquet of lavender flowers.