Diakopton Station

(Diakopton is the town on the Athens - Patra run where you can catch the cog railway that winds up to Kalavryta.)

The politician's music blares
from a stand across the street
as the 6:47 ebbs to a stop,
late in the dusk.

The woman
in the black leather skirt speaks no English.
Life's patina shines mellow in her intelligent, hard face.
Today ascending to Kalavryta
I watched her stony-faced holding her narrow ground
against the interrogation of coarse-whiskered men,
and wished the gorge was not between us.

Now she is close
next on the unyielding bench
drawing the chirping youth
eager girls for her radiant blessing.
Now she rises to board
for Egio or Patra.
Now I am alone.

People wander across the tracks
the engineer in yellow knit shirt
slides to the ground,
dodges the children
walks to the baggage car
his orange, years-battered diesels
left to unrhythmically pant,
radiator vents banging open and shut.

Friends on the unjourneying ground
crane to speak to passengers,
lightly touching the welded cars
but the woman for Egio stares ahead
unseeing, alone.

A blare of horn and lights,
and in full darkness
the Athens express
creeps into town from the west
scattering the dogs and children.
The local's engineer sprints for his cab.

The express clears the switch
a moment,
the orange diesels bark black plums
pungent smoke incense hallows the air.
The line of heavy blue coaches
accelerate toward the west,
severing conversations.

The woman for Egio and I
wave to each other,
and her possibilities
slide away to the west.

A moment,
the express softly leaves
the station tracks
return to anticipation.

The politician is talking
to cheers and applause
as those in the station cafe
talk among themselves
and I wrap silence around me.

Killing Time at the Hotel Panorama

The wind blows from the northeast
driving waves onshore
insistent spray confronts the walker
conscience pricked by stones

Philosophies slosh in eddies swirl,
the dry leafed supertanker dreams
bob to alien rhythms.

I lie on the carpet
thousand-miled voices
roll over my hope
knees pricked by fiber strands
nose in the stale reminders of a thousand guests.

Illusions retreat from
salt tang remnants
future dies on drying seaweed.

Even the storm will be gone by midnight.

Passage to Rafina

I saw a happy couple today
on the brown vinyl seats
framing the ferry window.

He, a simple, gentle face
thick hair askew,
old shirt dirt polished jeans.

Her, plump,
childish hair
ill fitting clothes,
tight and loose,
shiny, unfashionable, scuffed purse radiant joy on a red, plain face.

Oblivious to the glaring insults
the world wished to send them,
they chatted and found delight
he mugged for her

and they laughed
over every entry in the checkbook.

Passage to Andros

Washed tints of steel blue gray
through a streaked window.

Rumbles, low and lower
chant and sway

An uninhabited isle looms out of the spots and dirt
suggesting mysteries it will not deliver.

Staring intently to find ultimates
but I only long
with no object.

Propped up on a hill,
dying
after a full life,

this will speak its wisdom to me
and I will be ready for the clouds.

For now,
it is empty.

Peloponnese Waiting Room

Everything is an affront to the ancient man,
sad olive sock protecting wounded foot.
His daughter's attempts to keep him clean
bewilder him.

The women on my bench
resent my unexpected presence and
rustle ominously as they plot.

Cracked, dirt polished tiles' patina
compliment brown walls.

The black shawled woman peers intently
at the door to the platform
but the train is not late.

The pigeons flutter the cigarette smoke
and the Albanians sleep in
icon golden light
from the dirty window.