Greek Voices
Yianni, out of work, huddled in a doorway,
Sucks the last smoke from his precious roll-up,
Feels the thin cloth of his empty pockets,
And stamps his dead-man’s shoes on the pavement,
He doesn’t want to queue for potatoes
In the open streets of Athens, or take
His wife a bundle of clothes from the church,
He doesn’t want to sit at a table
Like a monk from Athos, waiting for Easter,
So he goes to his mother, who, welcomes
Him, open arms, to her bare house, and shares
A pot of boiled greens she picked on the hill.
He returns home blasting the sweet Virgin,
Not because there is no meat on his plate,
But because his voice is all he has left,
His wife shouts back, not because there is no
Meat on her plate, (or hope of any) but
Because the sound of their voices creates
Paradise in a vacuum of silence,
They want their voices to be heard; they want
To rattle the glass of a thousand panes
©Jane Sharp 2012
