I walk through sun-baked stony alleyways,
And overhear the buzzing of Italian voices
in their kitchens and dining rooms.
Something is always stirring –
what better time to discuss it than over lunch?

I hear them humming in their hives,
Chattering, gossiping, and laughing.
If their queen is content,
Why should there be any reason for them to stop?

Still, a storm is brewing in the kitchen. . .

The pots are anxious to share their secrets;
they are such a terrible heated burden,
If left to sit too long . . .
Heating, bubbling, boiling.