When I finally found her alone in her room,
I got down on all fours and begged for it,
Took her scented knees in my hands and from
Some aching place in me I raised the goblet
Of my supplication: “Won’t you save the life
Of an old man who, for all intents and purposes,
Is almost dead? Whose numbered breaths now chafe
His lungs? An old man who, nonetheless,
Is saddled with the cravings of a teenage boy?”
I think it really got to her. A hot tear
Tracked her cheek, but as I pressed my plea
The tear dried up, and with what I feared
A gesture of revulsion, she raised her hand
To consign my wish to a never-never land.
Rufinus, circa second to fifth century A.D.
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