PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Vipsania comes from the market stalls.
She went there without servants; and, barefoot,
bought all the fixings she will need to put
your meal together; although this appalls
many who constitute high class in Rome.
They think this is subversive and upstart,
and yet some wonder why you chose a home
in modest suburbs, quiet and apart.

You spend the afternoon with books of Greek
verses.  Profound familiarity---
that is, a working expertise---you seek:
lyrics in short lines from Callimachus;
then a short epic, Apollonius'.
You study with the hope to be a scholar,
to have an opportunity to teach.
Vipsania thinks this is within reach---

she likes to hear you talk of poetry.
Of course, your mother, with her hateful streak,
complains about this.  You should hear her holler.

You think some Roman poets are demented:
they do not hold couples' lovemaking sacred.
They have not seen Vipsania come near,
clad only in a pair of stockings---sheer
except around the toes:  like those invented
by Cleopatra to, the much more, please
one man's utmost desire . . . Mark Antony's.
But for the evening, set your books aside.
The joy Vipsania wants to provide
is promised as she whispers in your ear:
"Playtime begins  now.  You need to get naked."

Starward

[jlc]