Carmen

after Catullus

Late snow today, and flower bulbs
are already sending their fat shoots up
through wet mulch along the sidewalk.
Sparrows flit through the bushes,
taunting me with their song of spring.
I imagine how one would fit so perfectly
in the palm of my hand, how warm
it would be. I’m tempted to believe
the lies these birds sing, but I know my girl
is hearing the same song down south
and there it carries every sign of spring.
I think of your girl’s sparrow, Catullus,
and you take the moment to remind me
that my verses should be even less pious
than I am. Which I’ll take as I should,
and cut right to the part of this song
you’ll like. My Carmen, see, makes
your Clodia seem blowsy, a diluted wine,
a dull receptacle for perfumed, sheet-wrapped
goatherds. This, my friend, is the 180-proof
world, land of the four-hour erection, home
to newfangled words like pedophilia,
gloryhole. Clodia’s old hat here, and your
weakness for little boys hasn’t aged well.
So I called Carmen down south to promise her
three hundred thousand kisses and more
(which, you’ll agree, doesn’t make me
a softy), and she scoffed that if I’d set
my sights on greatness, I might consider
your record of screwing nine times straight
through an afternoon. I said I’d do well
to make three, as she knew, and she laughed,
extolling the virtues of the young. Lord,
is this just reward for my faithfulness?
I no longer even pray for an end to this game,
O, only that these claws be removed from me.
As for this college kid, whoever he may be,
I’ll not pedicare or irrumare the fool just yet,
content for now to keep my pants on—
though open (as ever) to expert advice.
I know she’ll have it both ways as long
as she can, so I hope she’s the one left
taking it from both sides, never finding
love, and never looking back to mine—
for she’s left it stillborn, like the flower shoot
a careless worker clipped with his snow shovel.