My husband and I were sitting at a cafe in Athens, looking at a cathedral and eating feta dip in silence. I felt like a character in a Hemingway short story – maybe “Hills Like White Elephants,” but with all of the grand openness and none of the depressing stuff. Here’s the start of a poem I’d like to work on:

Oh, to be an old woman on an airplane
To be expected
And still spry enough to lift my own bag
But creased enough to merit a steadying hand on my arm