_11. History

My father was in Athens
30 years ago and walked
through a sqaure when someone
flicked a cigarette butt
from a cafe table & it
landed between his heel and
the back of his Birkenstock.
It must have smarted
something fierce, and worse
because of the heat.
Today I stopped at a cafe
outside on the metro on the
way from the Parliament buildibng
back to my pension and wrote
this poem. It’s not in Athens in June
but it’s hotter in California; I’m
thining I should call my father.
I’ve written a poem every day
for the last 9 days, the first of
a 49 day journey. My father turned
58 last month. I’ve been to Athens
twice and neither time with him. At
the Akropolis this morning I saw
the sanctuary of Asclepieion, whose
“use as a Christian site was un-
questionable.” There it was: twenty-
three centuries ago built by
beautiful pagans but, like everything
else, co-opted by the son and the father
and their holy ghost.