At the Delphi Café
By Charles Fishman

I have a coffee with icecream and you
a club soda & lime (you'd asked for a wedge
of lemon but this the Greeks translate freely,
as they do all things save religion, politics, and family).

We sit at a corner table where vines blossom and twine
along the wrought-iron railing. The ridge-line of rough cliffs
falls away at rare and oblique angles, and the dull-orange
rooftiles of nearby houses scroll out beneath us.  

On this day, the sea's smoldering song somehow reaches us,
a spatter of salt and foam that splashes against our feet. 
Here, there will be no night and no regret.  At last, I write, and you
cool yourself with the icy glass--face arms neck and shoulders:  

You take the moist coolness of the shining glass into you.