What well-heeled knuckle-head, straight from the unisex <br />Hairstylist and bathed in Russian Leather, <br />Dallies with you these late summer days, Pyrrha, <br />In your expensive sublet? For whom do you <br />Slip into something simple by, say, Gucci? <br />The more fool he who has mapped out for himself <br />The saline latitudes of incontinent grief. <br />Dazzled though he be, poor dope, by the golden looks <br />Your locks fetched up out of a bottle of Clairol, <br />He will know that the wind changes, the smooth sailing <br />Is done for, when the breakers wallop him broadside, <br />When he’s rudderless, dismasted, thoroughly swamped <br />In that mindless rip-tide that got the best of me <br />Once, when I ventured on your deeps, Piranha. <br /> <br /> <br />(FREELY FROM HORACE)<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-old-malediction/
