His Own Apollo

My friend is by no means Dracula or a werewolf,

but the full moon’s mostly lawless beauty

has never failed to tantalize him,

to lure him outdoors.

Tonight the gallivanting moon,

all systems go,

makes a pallid cascade in the Roman street,

while my spirited mentor relates,

over chamomile tea,

his once-upon-a-time penchant for “cruising.”

At first, he found unhampered freedom

in forest anonymity and horseplay,

and a kind of erotic royalty,

since, in his galvanizing “strolls”

(his tickling noun for them),

his Olympian blondness

and glittering  gimlet eyes

made him “the belle of the ball”—

the besotted men’s clandestine lips

and fly-by-night hands

at sweet stations of  his body,

a reckless Song of Solomon.

“At the witching hour,”

in the mesmerizing woods,

with his lingering or ablaze admirers,

sometimes he experienced

authentic ecstasy,

as if  he could dwell forever

in the subsuming hallelujah and ellipsis

of  his final orgasm,

or sing to his frenetic cohort

of al fresco confederates

and acolytes of moonlight,

like a vast-throated Pavarotti.

At stark sunup, he’d tiptoe back

to his milquetoast rooms,

his small shade-drawn oasis,

staving off  his workday

or collegiate tussles

with a truant’s joys: a treasure trove

of shelled pistachios

and a pack of unfailing Camels.

My friend is by no means Methuselah,

though he’s white-haired,

devoted to the domestic nowadays,

the linnet’s aria and the owl’s call

are still thrilling to encounter.

Tonight, my untrammeled maestro confesses

he perceives the roll-call beauty

of foraging, at-the-ready men,

circling and coupling in the forest

with the will of conquistadors,

as more fleet and arresting than ever.

He insists that strolling nights

under the alluring moon,

when no one’s waiting for him,

is no longer worth his while.

As a buoyant elder, a riveting sage,

he’s vibrant but done with the hunt,

the unmonitored prowl.

He knows, to the marrow, how easily

the bracing woods can become

an overriding obsession

or an illusory escape.

Breathing in the ebullient nighttime air,

under the moon’s penetrating,

busybody gaze, in his invisible tie

and dress suit of solitude, all politesse,

he’s his own best company,

his own intoxicating Apollo.