Less of the door-bell-trade now, huh—
The ones who spent the night howling
Under your window? Well, girlfriend,
That doorbell is quiet.
And the phone that just never stopped ringing,
Forget it! Don't even remember
The pleading long calls after midnight
'Cmon . . . just half an hour . . .'
You who could give the quick brush off
Prepare to be brushed off: invisible.
Hunt with the hustlers in alleys
When the moon's down, and you've got
The Greek hots in your ass and need
(Like Catherine the Great) to get mounted
By stallions: those gayboys who
Want younger colts now and
Much greener pastures than the
Brown grass of your late-winter meadows.
More sparingly now do the wanton young men rattle your fastened
windows with frequent knocking. They do not disturb your
slumbers, and your door, which used to swing continuously on its
hinges, now loves its lintel.
Less and less now do you hear: "Lydia, can you sleep while I,
your beloved, wake through the long nights?"
In your turn, an old woman abandoned in the lonely alley, you
shall complain of the arrogant gallants, while the Thracian wind
howls more wildly beneath the new moon.
Then those stirrings of passion and lust which drive the mares
wild will rage about your ulcerous liver, not without regret
that the care-free young take more pleasure in the green ivy and
the dusky myrtle, and dedicate to Hebrus, winter's companion, the
leaves which are sapless.