Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
When the tourists came,
few noticed me roaming the village streets,
so much like a tourist I might have been one.
But my eyes were like sea-stones,
and my legs didn’t mind the climb up
the cobblestone road. The way I greeted neighbors
was neighborly, not distant with a passport
in my mouth. Greek tumbled out
and made them pause. The women thought
they detected something in my dress, my walk,
my long skirt covering the ground with a sweep.
But they had things to do,
and the sun was coming over the village.