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Caesar's poolboy wore a tight sparkling toga
shaved every follicle from his flesh, and sluiced
every cell of his skin with extra virgin olive oil
until he was the song mother's sang to their sons
like a warning ringing over the Tiber
above a lake where the Golden Eagle stood vigil.
After, in the glow of morning his body would embrace
the water, a  colossus of touch & touched - until he
became he clean and tall, erect like a monument
polished with sheep's wool. Caesar could swim there
in the pansied sun, a brutish testament to war
mocking this peace of boy. Old, grissled, a new God
of war and the price of freedom. The pool boy smiled
until he forgot everything he once knew.