a late digestif

it’s after our coffee,
the room is still a mess
from last night’s “Italian
night.”
we made our own pasta
with your new pasta maker
after we finally figured out
how to put it together,
jamming the plastic in
there and me cranking the
handle like mad. dough
everywhere today – i was
throwing it up in the air like
i was making pizza – and the
entire apartment reeks of
mussels.
our dirty plates are still
on the table and our dirty
glasses and a bottle of
limoncello nearly empty.
you watch me lean forward
from the couch, grab it and
pour it into my coffee cup.
oh no no! you say, cmon!
at least get a new glass!
i shrug.
you go over and get a
new glass and two cubes
of ice and throw them in,
then sit down next to me
and pour the rest of it in
your glass. i chuckle.
we lean back, sipping as
the sun peels the gray off
morning.