A lame question, but a safe one, he thought.
Wouldn’t want to give her
the wrong idea — or worse yet,
the right one.
“San Paulo” was her answer
(or something like that), not that
he was even there
having wandered off again
somewhere between her eyes
and her lips, where
it can be hard to hear anything.
He wondered to himself,
“is that anywhere — near Ipanema?”
but he failed to keep it to himself, and
she laughed, obviously,
and the heat rushes to his face
and the colors drain from the world
and she smiles and the stars
draw arcs in the lunch-hour sky ‘round
her hair, the breeze
blowing all the patio umbrellas
tumbling and laughing
to the sea, o mundo