Sometimes on Friday evenings,

I say to myself,

“To Hell with this jazz, “

and I drift over to Al-Cazar,

where I drink too much Scotch,

talk very loudly,

and slap the sumptuous behind

of the belly-dancer.

Afterwards I get the eye

From the pimp with a crooked smile.

Al-Cazar is a nice place

To visit on a Friday,

But no place to live.

The next morning,

Cursing a small hangover,

I am at work again

In the confines of my study.

I pause from my pursuits,

And wait for the children

To return from school,

The quiet cocktails before dinner,

And the pleasant talk afterwards.

This is no place to visit,

But it’s a nice place to live.

This poem has appeared in "ARMENIAN-NORTH AMERICAN POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY" (St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Manna Publishing, 1974), Lorne Shirinian, editor. It was read by Harry Koundakjian. https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2006/09/leo-hamalian-home-thoughts-from-abroad.html