Beneath my balcony, nerantzis breathe their bitter-
sweet perfume that blends nostalgia and spring
to haunt old Athens neighbourhoods;
locals shout their morning greetings, all as if they’re
hard of hearing; church bells clang, and canine strays
volunteer gruff commentaries.
The mansion on Apollonos has orchards
fruiting on its roof—olives, citrus, laurels
crowd like spectators at balustrades;
roses crane their necks to get a clear view
of the street below, while the mansion’s
genteel occupants remain invisible.
On the corner opposite, limber laundry employees
apply themselves with such zeal to the steam-
pressing of shirts and sheets, the rhythm of their work
resembles choreography: a pas-de-deux with ironing
boards, agility of hips and waists; their torsos in white
cotton shirts flex gymnasts’ chests and shoulder blades;
deft hands reach out to empty sleeves as if
in an embrace; steam condenses on The Zenith’s
windows like a water wraith, transforming
it from sweaty corner laundry to dance studio,
transmogrifying routine tasks to ergonomic art.
Athens, April 2015
(nerantzi: bitter-orange tree)