Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
A city of flat rooftops
like stages of the Acropolis,
rooftops from which you could view
in the tabernacle of Athena’s burgeoning
olive grove—city of scattered lights,
of our individual dramas. That is what I saw
when I hung the underpants and bras
a Greek woman had found dangling
from the shower rod.
Her unintentional gift: a journey
to the top of the house, a rooftop to the world’s
clean laundry—why, I could rise up
and be anything, anyone, anytime.