Street of Bitter-orange Trees

The street where we lived briefly
was reached by way of shabby
alleys; animal and human strays
patrolled the garbage sacks.

Bitter-orange trees grew there
and fought for life in leaden
air. A lame man cleaned the street
each day at eight. He'd pause
outside our ground-floor flat, close
to the diaphragm of blinds, then scrape
his shovel sullenly and limp away.

On evenings laced with toxic fog,
ateliers hummed joylessly; trapped
in stuffy basements, craftsmen
fashioned teeth and gums and limbs.

April's buds of ivory set
harsh gold fruit too tart
to eat; doves shared
reminiscences of sweetness.

We didn't find the harmony
we craved, at that ill-starred address;
amity and clemency were lodging
elsewhere, incognito. Gyzi was home
to dwarfed "nerantzi" trees that gasped
for breath, mangy dogs and street-
wise cats, old women expecting death.

Free to leave as they
were not,
why do I miss it so?



Gyzi: a run-down, inner-city district of Athens
Nerantzi (Greek): bitter-orange (tree, fruit)