Walter James Preston
The Beginning of Worry
These days I only think about sleep,
the euro, and how low the dollar is.
At present it's impossible
for me to think of things like:
"The fabled romance between
the ocean and the breeze."
Yet here I am in my element of love,
and being in love, where fishermen
moan over tall glasses of tsipouro
wondering where all the catch went.
And I see young lovers everywhere;
they walk the streets of Plaka at night,
and in the cafes they lean on one another;
they are drinking, and they are laughing.
And with all this the words escape me.
Words...these empty words of mine
seem to be lost between the busy days
and the weary nights.
Not even the dead eyes of Homer
would fall upon me,
nor the faint voice of Kavadias
be heard in the rustling palms.
©2008 by Walter James Preston