I opened the bottle
and poured the wine.
Sitting in his kitchen,
the normal thing to do.
Yet not. He’s dead. But…
His swirling soul stirred
each glass, each word—the smiles
we served each other
on salami and bread.
I saw him making braggiole.
How does a dead man
continue living this way?
No one was there.
I sat at the table—my usual spot.
The wine tasted like him.
I opened the glass
and saw my reflection.
Then… what was that?
His face, reflected in the window
as if he were inside…
I looked… nothing.
That thin visage was outside,
then disappeared.
As I touched my wine glass to drink,
an invisible hand wrapped
over mine. Neither critical,
nor reassuring; neither warm
nor cold: just there.
I miss the old man,
Yet when I left,
I was never happier to be gone.
Anthony SignorelliThanks for reading. For more poems, please subscribe for free.