The little green town-spot known by the old as Coube,
on the north side of the Cornaro Square,
marks the back end of the Heraklion market
and is by silent consensus a station for relaxation
(also for comfort),
especially after a good night’s sleep
on the complacent cot of myth.
It is dotted with buttocks inviting brown wicker chairs
and wrought iron, round-top tables – the set up
for brewing a slothful frame of mind
and all-purpose Greek, not Turkish, coffee.
Actually, it is an open air coffee shop
in the shelter of speechless trees
fanning over grey heads and conversation.
The handsome currency of morning shade,
courtesy of a modern building across,
wags invitingly to pensioners and pigeons
to peck at peanuts pending from the State
and current off the floor.
There stands the Venetian fountain Bembo,
with its mutilated marble statue in recess.
The head is missing – lost in the quick sand
of partisan politics.
The right hand is gone – (rumors of a ghost hand
torching Peloponnese are ablaze.)
Only the sarcophagus for basin remains – gapping
for water … and flesh.