The Man On The Mirror

When he was a boy,
I used to see him maybe
storming across the alps
on a bucking white steed,
in Italian marble
outside an enlightened lunar bistro,
or shepherding his harem
on some sleepy tropic isle.
But now I see sinful feasts
on that madly sensual mouth,
a hundred monsoons
blotched on his brown skin,
and only guarded hope
in those grey, marble eyes.
There will be no portrait
but perhaps he's won
a poet's nook in the fierce and massive
tapestry of our modern night.