The Athenan

By Scott Hatch

We came to this cafe when we were young.
There was a dancer.
I dared put money in her belt.
The anziano
who played with the band
came out and danced—
no one offered him money.
His dance haunted us.
We did not know why
(he danced and we felt his dance and did not know why).
We did not then know of Odessus,
or of Vafiades,
or of the stone of time
that roled between them.
And again we are here,
his dance telling us of all this,
making the pages of our books
nothing more than pages.

He dances and the instruments trail off
until only the lap of tide
and wind and awnings and fronds accompany him,
and he stops.