‘who so willing may go in, for there is nothing within the
house that is private of anie man’s own.’
SIR THOMAS MORE, UTOPIA
The blind man scrapes his stringless violin,
whistles, and a grin buffs his cheeks as George
folds drachs into his pocket. When he leaves
grizzled bousoukia players start to sing
‘s’agapo’. Tonight’s special is a Delphic treat:
‘for you, Mister John, to give you strength in love’.
And Babi’s wily fingers prise from a sheep’s cracked skull
white, wrinkled pulp. ‘Is good, I tell you. Eat.’
In go the bent tin forks. Dimitris, Manos, Aleka,
Fotini, Anna, friends and friends of friends: tonight
and every night all seats are taken, yet still
Babi finds space for others. ‘Come in, sit here.’
Talk crams between the anyhow tumblers, plates,
brimming copper jugs, and a lottery-ticket seller
empties my glass, though the barrel’s resined flow
won’t stop. So, welcome one more miso! – ‘to brush your teeth’.
S’agapo. And Babi’s winey breath
blesses the tables of the true Demos…
And in London, at tables round which maids
flicker silent as shadows, united
by the dividing salt, monogrammed soup spoons
dip and rise, desirable as AIDS.