PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

1

Important to the vocation of any Poet, 

according to the scholars at the Library, is

closely precise discernment---the ability to

recognize the commonly unrecognized among the

mundane and esconce it in celebratory language

that does not compromise to the prejudices of

ordinary shopkeepers and petty profiteers.  No

one else had noticed, with anything more than

amused contempt, the beauty of the begging

boy at the intersection of two avenues---the

Fishmongers' and the Foreigners'.  Filth of

all sorts had matted in his auburn and

profuse waist-length hair.  His slender frame

drew ever nearer to emaciation, and his

agile limbs had begun to lose their alacrity.

Offal, mostly from domesticated beasts,

crusted to his very shapely bare fee.  A

highly offensive and malodorous stench now

clung to his flesh that had, despite all else,

achieved a golden complexion in the light of the

Alexandrian sun.  At least one thug had happily

entertained the desire to rape him with well

deployed violence.  His attraction to your

invitation was, simultaneously, eager and

ridden with suspicion; but the prospect of the

kind of meal you had described and a night of

safe shelter from the nocturnal chaos of the

city's worst quarter compelled his acceptance.

2

He had never ridden in a litter before, and

you provided him his own, moving through the

streets beside yours, lest he fear that a

shared compartment might impose upon him an

unwelcome molestation.  Upon arrival, the

servants you had hired---who, being paid by

commission upon the quality their work could be

expected to complete their assigned tasks with

far more zeal than your household's few slaves.

Water had been warmed in the shallow, marble,

in-floor pool; an Amanuensis was ready to bathe

him gently but thoroughly; a masseuse, hair

stylist, cosmetician, and haberdasher awaited

their opportunities to serve him.  In the

kitchen, a chef (not merely a cook) prepared a

really nourishing and plentifully portioned

meal; a cellarer prepared the best Caecuban

vintage for him, to be delivered in an ancient,

artistically designed and crafted wine-bowl.

3

His whole existence's duration amounted to nearly

but not quite, fourteen years---more than half of

that spent outdoors in the streets, in garbage

piles, and darkened corners were rodents and

other vermin (and some of them, the human sort)

lustfully lurked.  He had early learned the

paradox with which every beggar became, quickly.

familiar---that the days and nights were both too

long and too short.  The room that, this morning,

your chief household servant had furnished and

decorated for him (gold fixtures, the finest linen

sheets, fresh flowers carefully arranged, and

thick cushions upon which to relax), was meant to

convey both a sense of safe haven and of permanent

availability so long as he might desire to have it.

His place at your table, at your right hand, was

also similarly offered.  You had been surprised to

learn, by demonstration, that his reading ability

was more than merely rudimentary; and your

collection of many Poets' complete writings,

including those of the three great Greek playwrights---

his for the leisurely perusal at his convenience.

4

Clean, combed, robed (but not shod; he militantly

disliked even the very thought of shoes, and

your tiled floors were very respectful to his

footsteps), fed, and all expectations of ulterior

motivation allayed, he came---of his own volition---to

your bedroom, while you were reading Meleager's

Garland.  His courtesy seemed to be well practiced, and

not just recently acquired; his deference was sincere,

but---as you told him kindly---unnecessary within the

walls of your home.  After a casual conversation,

during which his disclosures became more candid and

his innocence more poignant, you offered him a small

teakwood box, its surfaces sanded smoothly lacquered,

with a rare and very pleasant fragrance arising from it.

With sparkling eyes and an exuberant smile, his hands no

longer trembling (suburban comfort had allayed his

urban fears, least to darkest), he lifted the lid and

removed the contents from the felt-lined interior---a

pair of stockings, woven from golden Koan silk, perfectly

translucent except for the opacity of the soft, doubled

weave at the heals and toes.  "The recently deposed

"queen designed these garments," you explained to

him, "although their beauty should not be restricted to

"queens or princes."  The box also included a small

suspending device, meant to encircle his waist, its

dangling ribbons' clasps were to attach to the stockings'

tops, tautly, at the thighs.  With very little effort,

he loosened his clothing to fall to the floor.  Naked and

tumescent, he drew the sheer sheaths on to his legs and

feet, and cinched them up.  From the lavender bulb, already

raised up on its shaft and slightly bobbing to the rhythm of

his accelerating pulse, a first droplet of his sweetness---

confected within his core---emerged.  You noticed that at

once; and when your gaze met his, a sudden blush flooded

his cheeks.  Then, as the stars began to constellate the

sky above your windowed ceiling; and with a sense of

happiness such as he had never experienced before---and

naked except for his stockings (oh so delectably

naked and beautiful with those stockings on), he asked

you---his voice softly and sultrily seductive---to teach

him the intimacies and intricacies that are Love's. 

Starward

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