YouTubed eighties Italian songs ring on
from wifi-fed speakers in kitchen air, fair,
tinged with mussels and butter.
Chef, pan-flips, dexterity slips within each,
and the next, showing me sauce-making
excitedly, with a smile and stir,
chats about Sorrento, the lemons—
my Neapolitan isn’t great, but I attempt,
mouthing the old motto: Naples, my heart.