I bite on this pen
   I don't know where it's been
After the dinner, italian ravioli
His mother sits to the left
In her later age
   she seems happy
   and secure
Straight, stringy blonde hair
I ask if she can hear me
We chat about the small things
The wine glasses are half full
She raised this man
I share my thoughts with
We share a laugh
   and a drink
I bite the pen again
and rest my face on his knee, hoping
to be like her