Portofino Restaurant at the edge of
the desert
Lights twinkled above us like
Chinese lanterns.
Candy ordered veal parmigiana, lush
and wet.
I had veal piccata—
ooh, your father’s favorite, she slyly said—
thin and unfilling. A tanned singer
with tight blue-white hair
did Volaré and Song Sung Blue
accompanied by taped music,
an organ and a snare,
his shirt white with black
pin-flowers, his close lips,
his thick voice, his hands caressing
the mike. At the next table
two couples stopped eating,
listened, shoulders rising and
lowering to the music.
His teeth were ageless;
he flashed them and shook a
tambourine
and rolled his hips.
Candy ate intently, and her whiskey
sour
made her translucent eyes reflect
the lights.
The old waitress with the tall black
hair
touched the back of my shoulders
with her breasts
on her way to the kitchen;
“Your father used to flirt with
her,”
Candy said, her eyes glowing.
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