Salonica

I refuse to retire.  The
Warm, dry night air
Surrounds me, moves me
Through the streets of Salonica.

A symphony of sounds
Greets me along the waterfront.
Tires squeal and
Pull cars onto the clogged road.
Music mixes with laughter and
Floats from taverna after taverna.

Aristotle, himself, beckons to me.
Come into my plaza.
Sit.
Stay.
Siga, siga.
I soak up Salonica.

I see ears of corn.  Their kernals
Slowly turn from gold to black as
Vendors tend to their grills.
Bubbles float into the
Night sky, from the wand of a child.
Girls giggle, seated next to
Aristotle,
Larger than life.  His
Bronze figure presides over his plaza,
His home.
Columns line up
Like soldiers at-the-ready, flanking the plaza.  They
Flaunt engraved capitals, nodding to their
Corinthian relatives of long ago.
I witness a brilliant bouquet of balloons
Threatening to
Lift their vendor
Into the night.
A soccer ball soars.
From the ground below
Echo shouts and laughter between teammates.

Banter envelopes me.
Unfamiliar.
Energetic.
Language.

I refuse to retire.

Salonica.