The Customer

by Brett Rutherford

    after Palladus, Greek Anthology V, 257.

Last night I saw Zeus --

I ought to know from how

my eyes hurt, flashed

as they were with a glint

of his visage. Oh yes,

I averted my view,

but no other one

than the boss of Olympus

left Lydia's bedroom

just as her candle dimmed

and a rooster, premature,

announced that rosy-

fingered morning to come.

Now Lydia's no Leda,

Danae or Europa.

No swan flew off,

no bull destroyed

her household gods

as he made a new door

to the back garden,

and no umbrella

was needed as Zeus

slipped out solidly.

Virgin princesses get

raging bulls and birds

puffed out with feathers,

or the warm inflow

of golden waters --

Lydia, the commonest

of common women,

for whom courtesan

is too polite a term,

she gets a rag-robed

shaggy old man,

counting out coppers

as he negotiates

how long, and at what

angle they engaged.

Only his eyes, cerulean

gave him away

as he slunk off after.

Hera would never suspect.

Gods here in Greece

are too close for comfort.