I see you vividly, amie,
petite, maigre, fatiguee, assise
dans votre joli-petit
salon, samedi l'apres-midi.
There is a fine pale rain
like tulle across the dirty city;
you clutch your bowl of weak
cafe to ward off autumn's chill.
'How is your city, really?' you
asked more than once, and I
replied: 'Like any city when
you're bored and tired.'
Those Athens Saturdays we
languished, listened vainly for
the phone, cooked meagre meals
and took turns filling orange
plastic bowls. You laundered
dainty wisps of lace; my clothes
seemed coarse and frayed.
'Ah,' you would say, 'in summer
there's no money, holidays
aren't paid. I put my lip-
sticks in the fridge, mes par-
fums, maquillage; I starve...'
In autumn there is work,
you can buy bread, and drink
cafe... I think of you,
comme d'habitude, all
afternoon on Saturdays.
pour Aline