Port Piraeus

The very same shoes took a lonely seat on the wing of Port Piraeus, while the procrastinating noon wind, so calm, letting my tongue be clothed with orange rinds down the sea of passion. The lovely stray feline struts on heels, so eager to be free, searching for hornpipe dancers— hmm, those well-built tars now sailing home on her ship laden with poetic dreams. The very same shoes stood up and quietly followed her, perhaps, with a free-verse and Sapphic stanza in his agitated steps.