Back they have come, to hold court
In their old bohemia. Wisely, the City State
Leaves open a coffeeshop, a limelit bar,
A house or two of ill resort -
For Eros, it knows, can never integrate.
Their women, driving them deep into the mountains,
Watch as the wild birds flock to their feet,
In love with innocence. Did they never grow up
Through power and corruption,
Undeclared global war, the law of the street,
And all their lifetimes in that separate dimension,
Exile? There they are
Like revenants, old now in the cocktail hour,
The notes of a lounge piano. So many years -
The hostesses no longer pay attention,
The muses are shrewder and the coinages all changed.
The gold, the silver and bronze -
Each seeks its level, in the scheme of things.
Liars and favourite sons
Rule over everyone, like philosopher-kings.
A million headlights stream against the windscreens
Of the taxis taking them home -
Lonely for Eros, as the state evolves,
Doomed to repeat themselves
In a new republic, neither Greece nor Rome.
