Left crouched by the gravity of years and the presence of friends
like warped reflections in a mirror, the aged at the adjoining table
lament
- the presence of five new wines
- the absence in one's collection of a true grigio
- antique mirrors sold ever more cheaply
- how decades had left Athenian digs ever more bare
barer, I'd imagine, than anyone at the table would admit,
as they huddle to catch the warmth embedded within
voices of friends who understand. As I eavesdroppe for clues
a path opened, the afterpatter of storm clouds; at most I would
pass on only experiences, backed by the same baroque chords,
with nary a story or a chord out of tune.
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