Old Clothes

Then we put on those old clothes patched
with scraps from the flag; in one pocket shreds
of tobacco, in another crumbs of black bread, a ticket
from the ferry to Salamis. A trace of gunpowder perhaps.

The clothes are too big for us now: we're thinner and older,
thinking has tired us out. Sunlight flooded the windows
throwing patterns on the floor; an old bucket tipped
and trundled down the grand staircase. "I'm not afraid of you" –
a child's voice up from the garden – "but you're afraid of me."