

I sit in the restaurant and think,

You Greeks, is this what you eat

every day? It’s delicious, this,

what is it? Pastitsio? Delicious.

It’s a culture I could loiter around,

pretend to bump into by accident and say,

“Oh, nice to meet you. I’m just

here for no reason.” We’re all here

for no reason, I want to say to you,

Greece, place I have never been,

but whose corner restaurant gives me

insight. Moussaka! Now that’s a name

for food, serious but light-hearted,

a contradiction that opens to other

questions. Is this what you eat

every day? Moussaka? Pastitsio?

Are you in a villa, on the beach,

above a beach on a wide, white balcony?

Are your balconies white?

I hate my job. Do you have

places you are required to be?

Meetings you must attend?

You are strolling down the beach

as we speak, aren’t you, eyes gripping

the white caps, peeling back the sky,

looking out for Persians or Romans,

or others who would destroy the republic?

Is that like your only job?

Does it have health benefits?

Retirement they threaten to take away?

Thirty minutes paid lunch? Mmm.

Moussaka for lunch! Should I

capitalize Republic, and do you

still believe in Zeus and that other guy

they chained to a rock for giving us fire?

What was his name again? I have to know,

are you going to eat your dolmades?

How could anyone be tired

of dolmades? You probably eat them

every day. Or are you in too much

of a hurry for a home-cooked meal?

Say you have a mandatory meeting

to attend. You HAVE to go. In that case

does this moussaka I am so fond of saying

come in Hot Pocket form? As I said,

I have begun to doubt meaning,

and I bet you’ve just got the same

stuff we’ve got. Have you tried the

Philly Steak and Cheese Hot Pocket?

You should not. It is not their best effort.

The pizza one is pretty good, I guess,

because it’s pizza. How do you feel

about the Italians? I know you two

have a history. Is that a sore spot?

You should give them a chance.

They are a beautiful people. We have

an Olive Garden just down the street.

Prometheus! That was his name!

He gave the mortals fire so they

could cook their food and not die.

My doctor has wanted to check

my prostate ever since I turned forty.

I have put him off for about as long

as your austerity measures, so I

know what comes next. I am with you.

How is your cholesterol, by the way?

Moussaka! How do you do it?

I bet you don’t eat like this every day.

Damn it, Greece, I feel like I know you

already, but I have questions, and you

have not answered! Is everything the same

everywhere? You have no money,

the kids need new shoes, and pastitsio

is illusory at best? Did the banks

take your money, the police take

your rights, the loan company take

your home? Are they all the same

person, just one corporate entity,

and do you hate your job, which is part

of that bloodsoaked machine?

Have you ever eaten Taco Bell’s

Mexican pizza for lunch, because

it was the only place cheap enough

and close enough to work? The rumor was

that their boxes of meat were stenciled

Grade D, Fit for Human Consumption.

But it isn’t true, except how Prometheus

is true, and pain is the daughter of fire.

You shouldn’t eat that stuff, until they

label all of it poison, and tell us

who is impaled at the end of the fork.

I know you have struggled, Greece.

Tell me all of it, please, and have

some of my moussaka.

This is too much for one person.







Todd Heldt







Todd Heldt is a librarian who lives with his wife and two sons in Chicago. His first book, Card Tricks for the Starving, was published by Ghost Road Press.