Morning in Asti

The men in suits strut past the cathedral
in the main piazza in Asti, cigars tracing
cursive Italian phrases in the air, eyebrows
and shoulders punctuating each phrase.
I sit cross-legged on a bench, my comfortable
traveling clothes worse for the wear after
three months of days like this, pen cap clenched
between my teeth, wishing I was small and dark
like everyone else here. "Non sono tedesca,"
I say for the first time today, to the waiter
with the big southern smile, "Ma, il mio ragazzo,
lui e tedesco." But today, not even my
imaginary German lover will deter
the curiosity of the local libido, and
my mid-morning cappuccino is criminally
rushed.