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(Apollo and Hermes were traveling incognito, their road took them through a village where they were treated badly, they were insulted by the townspeople, dogs were sicced on them and children followed them out of town throwing stones. At the edge of the village stood a small hut where they were welcomed in by an older couple who selflessly shared all they had with the two strangers. The following morning the village had been transformed into a lake, the small hut now beachfront property. This tale is the reason Greek people, to this day, look kindly on transients.)

No one knew his history,
no one cared to ask the drunk old man
why he’d chosen to grace us with
his mixture of profanity and meanness.
He prowled the university campus for years
pushing a shopping cart
he’d requisitioned from the Shop ‘n Save,
grabbing anything of value the students left unattended,
collecting bottles for the deposit.
“Move your ass!” he’d shout at the unwary
like a scabrous Moses parting his own Red Sea.

We thought Poppi was crazy for feeding him
out the back steps of the restaurant,
kotta psiti, moussaka, sometimes baklava
if he behaved himself, which was rare.
She was nice to him yet he took advantage
sneaking in the kitchen through the screen-door
stealing chicken frying on the stove.
Uncle Ray and Poppi’s fights were legendary,
she’d roar like a lion,
he’d skulk and curse and sneak back in later,
recalcitrant,
exhibiting the charm and morals common to hyenas.
Yet he was canny enough not to go so far
she’d call the police,
and besides he had a job to do each day
stealing and begging,
chasing other bums off his turf and drinking himself senseless.

She found him one morning in an out-building, rolled up in a rug.
He’d been there a couple of days already,
his shopping cart nearby.
His old liver, shot full of holes, finally gave out,
a couple of 40-ounce malt liquor empties,
like shell-casings, beside his body.
Poor Poppi shed a tear for him, her mortal nemesis,
surely one more tear than he deserved
or got from anyone else.

The city disposed of his remains,
there was no memorial service for Uncle Ray,
an unmarked grave.
No deposit, no return.

Dale Arthur

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