Poor,
we never ate out--never mind
in a foreign restaurant;
and ate only American staples,
though, after Pearl Harbor, less meat.

Till years later my sister met

an ex-sailor with a last name
ending in a vowel–whose car
sailed us to Italy,
a town away, to a place
that served us “Pizza.”
                        

After a good night's sleep,
your mind awakes alert,
but when you get up, your legs
lag behind, still muscle-tired.
So you shuffle into the kitchen

and discover the patio
is quietly full of life.
A chubby mourning dove
leads your eyes to watch 
its waddling search for seeds

left over from yesterday's sprinkling.
Nearby, is the dove's loyal mate.
A stout blue-jay commands
the row of bricks beneath it.
A chipmunk, minding its own business,

nibbles in a far corner. 
A moment later, the doves
pause; lift their fat necks
 toward where you stand: and say,
“Come join us.”