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VIII. What the Boy Thought
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he was very serious, the latin fault,
but how could i complain?
he was caesar, i a mere boy.
my busted arse, however, was very sore
as were my ears from listening to his passion
all those tumbling words, those stops and starts.
half of what he said i couldn't fathom.
but what the...! he was powerful, i weak;
he rich, i poor; he emperor, i no one
only a pretty face and figure:
that was what he wanted, despite the rhetoric.
we shared a love of poetry - a plus,
himself a poet altho his clotted verse
and vast philosophy left me limp.
when this palled, we hunted, how we hunted!
on horseback and on foot, for any game,
in the chase our spirits joined as one,
a bloodthirsty pack led by a pair of baying predators.
those were the best times, those the very best
i loved him then
my boastful brave companion.
but everything was done with such intensity
i often grew tired, longed for rest.
he overtired himself as well
not knowing when to stop.
then was sulky and demanding, would not sleep
stayed up half the night with drink and talk:
the heavy courtiers trying not to nod
in the soporific air of smoking lamps.
then he attempted love, and failed, and raged.
everyone thought i had a wonderful time
but they were only half right.
of course i loved him. i was such a boy.
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