Puttanesca evenings, she will tend to tricks men pull that never finish old:
tilted head in ecstasy, pretend
the pasta on the counter isn’t cold.
Wharfside, anchovette leans on the railings
fishermen will trade with her, ascetic,
ignore the itch-and-scratching of her ailings:
(cinnamon: an ancient antiseptic).
Regardless of the legion times she lies,
the scent of tuna fingers, the unclean
gazing off to portside of the skies
blinking eyes; she won’t know what you mean.
Garlic hint to kneeling down instead
lay Puttanesca in the parsley bed.