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An Ode to the Small Town

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It was while I was extolling, rather formulaically, the virtues of Athens that I learned to appreciate life in a small town. O Nonós, the Godfather, rhapsodized (swift, tight flicks of the wrist, palms always open, furrowed brow) over life in Agriá, from which I interpreted the following:


 I, Iphigenia’s godfather, the free spirit of Agriá, am fulfilled.
Insouciant, I jump on my creaky moped and speed off.
With both legs hanging over the same side of the scooter, I wave and smile at each passer-by. 

A large cup of coffee and a chat at the same café every morning — this routine is not to be broken! 
I know everyone, and everyone knows of me.

I am practically toothless now, a testimony to my love of sweets, but also to my je m’en foutisme.
My shirt is dangerously unbuttoned, the top four or five ever undone regardless of the clouds or sun.
Tufts of grey hair emerge with confidence, virility and enthusiasm.
I am old now, but don’t you go telling that to anyone!

I love Agriá because it is where the sun watched my birth and is where the moon will stand guard during my final breath.

What would I do in Athens. . . in Thessaloniki. . . or even in Volos?

Wither away and die in anonymity, I suppose, the light from my eyes slowly but surely petering out.


   *  *  *
Select Enlightenment:
J. Lucas, 92 Acharnon Street (London: Eland, 2007).
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