Matthew Walther

Horace 4.1

I interrupt Venus (she’s on the move),

    And plead: I’m not the same.

I’m good quality now, not the one you’ve

    Wanted to blame

For what happened with sweet Cinara. Nope,

    I reflect. Fifty years 

Old and bagging Cupid’s Mom? Maybe you’ll hope

    For volunteers,

Who will pray for you, maybe some young gun

    To hop in your old car

With the purple swan decal? I’ll burn one

   Outside Paul’s bar.

Go get yourself a nice hard-working kid—

  Navy fleece, not shy,

With a hundred helpful hints—as I did,

   He’ll help you fly

That freak flag of yours. There won’t be a quiz:

    He’ll just laugh when some blouse

Shows up in the mail; you'll wear it at his

    Parents’ lake house.

.

Oh, see the picture underneath the trees—

    Silver air, Marlboro pack

Bummed from a girl (half your age, with orange knees,

    She sits in back);

The cold vodka and desultory praise

    Twice a day; no shock

They dance while your phone’s broken speaker plays

   The same flute rock.

I’m old now, not a woman, nor a boy.

    My hopes are morning showers

After the worst parties. Where is the joy

    In wet flowers?

I wonder. But now what’s this, my friend?

    Tears, uninvited, run

Suddenly down my face. Now speech must end

   That’s just begun.

Now I must hold you in my arms;

    I chase you while I dream

Of you, indifferent to these old charms,

    By the cool stream.

Matthew Walther is editor of The Lamp magazine and a New York Times contributing Opinion writer. He is writing a new biography of John Henry Newman for Yale University Press.