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Personal Note:

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Poem

I found a toasty taverne
on a Tuesday night in Athens
whose name in Greek translates 
as "The Good Wolf." 
The name resonated with me 
and George Harrison's solo songs
poured from the speakers,
so I had to stop in.
I ordered an Alpha beer, 
got comfortable
in one of the wicker chairs 
on the sidewalk
under the electric heater, 
and took out my notebook. 
Guilt crept in after a bit because 
eavesdropping replaced my writing
as I honed in on the chatter 
at the neighboring table.
Two couples-
one Greek 
and one German-
smoked cigarettes and 
drank white wine and 
picked from small plates 
and laughed together. 
They use their common tongue-
English-
and spoke of old films 
and of mortgages and 
of the sea and 
it made me a little lonely as 
George's cuts from 
All Things Must Pass
played behind me as I scribbled notes.
I never looked back at what I wrote
and drank another Alpha and 
more of their words... 
"rubbish in Cambodia,"
"built-in swimming pools,"
"Bavarian restaurants,"
as Crackerbox Palace played
from the taverne's kitchen. 
The nimble gaits of the stray cats
in the street
and the clanging of the far off church bells 
and All Those Years Ago by George
were my only interruptions. 
George might have been 
the Quiet Beatle,
but I was The Quiet American
in The Good Wolf
that night.

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