Apologies To Graham Greene
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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