After the Bacchanal

Sated satyr watches supple soft breasts

rise and fall with her dreams’ rhythms, ponders

love’s mysteries in wine hazed daze, wanders

lustful wilderness spent, drunk, and undressed

from wild rides through vineyards . . . She was impressed

with—what?—and fell, giggling, to lie under

Lust’s burning eye, ripe and lusty, wonder

of youth and beauty, and grace unsuppressed!

What of morning? Whose head will ache, cheeks burn

with something akin to shame, and what heart

might patter with some new emotion—turn

the page and write bright life anew? They’ll part,

and she’ll recall him as satyr du jour . . .

And he, crushed by love’s upset applecart.

David M Pitchford
Rev. 8 October 2008

(Painting: "Sleeping Bacchante" by Karolyn Brocky)