Poor Adam Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

The dream of a poor Adam,
or the pedestrian words of a march,
or, maybe, the last train to Kathmandu,
or, perhaps, little Nikolas falls in love.

Whatever it is,
the beginning was the socks.
But how can one talk about love
in their smell?

And so, I changed the song,
and from a blues, I turned it into an Irish polka,
and it became tasty,
just like Belgium sprouts
under a coat of sour cream.

Despite these dainty writings,
I haven’t managed to shine my sun yet
on the eyes of those rainmakers,
even through their sunglasses.