Italia by Paul Point

Entering noisily he orders
a coffee and the wifi code

‘Password is
Italia,’ she says,

knowing well the beat of
their own spoken dance;

staggered was the search
for a shared one. Her

flowering, Mediterranean
tongue, put him off step;

Continental neighbours they
agreed on his rhythm –

‘Italian!??’ He blurts.
‘E – tal – lee – ahh.’

Eyes met, agreement made.
Each stroke in each name

makes each precious key
for each precious door.

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