‘Any Greek wants to own his own shop’
Costa explains. I test his chair
then sit as he pours the last drop
of ouzo. ‘For you’ he begs, ‘here!’
pushing across a plate of mezes.
‘Go on, eat. This bloody machine,
it don’t work properly, these days,’
and he grins, oil bearding his chin.
Another customer looms at the door.
‘Tomorrow,’ Costa promises, ‘but please
come in.’ Table goods hit the floor –
‘Hey, sit here. Beer? Sardines then? Cheese?’
A woman I know says every Greek
male is mannerless and lacks ambition:
‘I may sound bitter, but I speak
from experience. I married one.’
Costa presides hospitably
over his wreck of a laundry. Before long
he’ll close and take the day’s money
to a bouzouki. There, wet-eyed with song,
and, if luck lasts, a woman,
he’ll curse the gods who’ve thrown him down:
then it’s home to his parents again,
to dream the pebble under his apt tongue.