It's alright talkin' Troy with the Deli
man's wife. A real Greek, she peeks o'er my
news sheet, speaks of the prince, the satyr
and the night in a bowl, riddled with stars.
"It be some tink!" she says from the dusk brown
rounds of her eyes, sending me a sigh's veranda;
the distant sails laying trails on a sea,
skin of silver with a heart wine dark.
But then the lunch crowd comes commanding
sandwiches of salami, baloney and ham
each named by number, thus these cuts
are cold indeed and baptized in vinegar.
Our sirocco all but blown,
what remains is gas alone.