The hall's dark, but my way's habitual. Twice insurgent shouting bangs a door shut; so peacefully, with courtesy, stand back. Teen girls descend, all smell of soap (and I of garlic), go out. Extinguishing lights, I climb the dark passage and lock my door. I drink water. I seat myself. I write.

Thessaloniki, 1994
Copyright © Lawrence Upton, 2000