Guy Calls George and Travis In
Across Mongolia’s endless steppes you say you’ll go,
on ponies wet with sweat. And yet I know you’ve never ridden.
Sumo wrestling in Japan? You weigh 110—you’ll be smushed—
and still you’re keen to squint your eyes and slap your thighs
and step into the ring. Georgie lad, I’ve heard you say
you’d smoke some dope, ‘though you’re allergic to the smoke.
Travis boy, you’ve gone and said you’d shake hands
with that White House guy—even though his name alone
breaks you out in hives. Only yesterday you claimed I only had to ask
and you’d cross town, to Papa’s Pizza, and order their calzone—
even after Mrs. Weatherly nearly died from e-coli.
So, brave boys, I’m calling in your promises:
Here’s some flowers
tied with ribbon, pink as a virgin’s tush. And some chocolates
drizzled with confection something-mumbly-dee. They’ll impress,
that’s what the clerk told me. And a heart-shaped pillow, festooned
in dainty lace, just like my Aunt Joan’s sofa cushions. Ring Leslie’s bell,
toss all the booty in her arms so she can barely see, and then
tell her she won’t get any more from me. Tell her all that love we shared
is fucking over. Flower in a distant meadow, severed by a plow—
that sort of thing. Her fault—say that. Then? Run—before she gets her gun.
Catullus 11