2 thoughts on “6:30 Friday morning on Bahariye Caddesi, Moda

  1. Dear Leonard, Stop it. stop posting these poems. For goodness sake, I turn eighty in a few days and I’m too old to travel but all I really want to do is get on a bloody aeroplane and come to Turkey and sit down with you outside at a Turkish cafe and drink coffee and later on drink whisky and talk about all our old girlfriends and weep and cry and ponder over every lost opportunity and finally cut each others throats.

    • Well that all sounds good to me cut I’m not so sure about cutting each other’s throat. Perhaps we can find a less bloody way to end the evening. Perhaps, Li Po, get so drunk in a boat that we try to embrace the reflection of the moon and slip off into the water and drown. How’s that?

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