Above my basement, in the street
an accordion player drags his feet, trailing
a bedraggled skein of melody; tentacles
of memory suck strangely at my reverie,
the splinters in my chest don't let me sleep.
At the cafe they'll reserve my customary seat,
invoking my sardonic voice, our bitter paragon, Kavafis.
They have the grace to keep away, and let
the grim nurse do her worst. 'How he despises
sympathy,' my friends will say. 'How Greek.'