here comes the truth,
and It is not wearing
the emperor's new clothes
but the peasant's old rags.
justice is served, with a side of broccoli
in the roadside diner off I-95,
the one with so many snapshots
of santorini.
cream-stone cottages, delicate as shells,
are a child's fingers
gripping the edge of a cliff,
as a pink and purpled sky
explodes across grateful dusk.
the owner remembers the coup
from decades past, turns up
the volume on every diner television set
each time the greek news channel
shows eager rioters in the wake of the acropolis,
the birthplace of western democracy
has become the missile proving ground
for reckless speculative bubbles,
but the good germans just say
the greeks need to work harder
and be more punctual
watching merkel smirkle and talk in a circle
as the rioters gain strength,
toss molotov cocktails into government buildings
with the thoughtless frivolity of children
throwing cheap firecrackers on the curb.
i want to watch someone else's revolution
in the roadside diner off I-95,
with a side of broccoli
and a shot of ouzo, its licorice tinges
putting me in the center of their action,
not leaving me on the fringes.
