Last Breakfast In Athens

in memory of Cecania Mueller

My heart on a hill
like what remains of the Parthenon,
gunpowder exploding in my eyes,

Persians in the pass,
their fleet boiling close to shore
held at bay by a pot of coffee.

I ordered eggs be sacrificed
to onions and tomatoes.
Byron’s sister hiding in the Trojan Horse of salt.

The past can only
be recovered by the past,
and then not changed.

A furious morning sun burns a hole
in downtown Athens,
my taxi teeters on a sword.

I see your face on whitewashed walls,
I swear our ancient love
could be revived, oh, Golden Fleece!