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Dinner with Alécio
I do not know Alécio.
I know he has a soft voice
That is deep, like the sound of a car
Running in my dad’s old garage.
I don’t know Alécio but
I know that his apartment is full
Of many pretty things
Each extraordinarily well positioned.
You see, I don’t really know Alécio.
I know that he serves food in serving dishes
And sauces in little pots that I wouldn’t know how to buy.
The bread comes to the table on a board.
I don’t know the man, Alécio.
I know he is a professor but
We often don’t look at each other when we talk.
We are afraid of appearing less smart.
I don’t know Alécio
I know that I know too little
To comment on his character or his cooking
And to do so would be misleading.
But even though I don’t know Alécio
I know that he loaned me a book
When he caught me
Trying to rob its best pages.
I don’t know him
But I consider that to be a good sign
As far as these things go.