The Twenty-Fifth Year of His Life
He goes regularly to the taverna
where they'd met the previous month.
He made inquiries, but they weren't able to tell him
anything.
From what they said, he gathered the person he'd met
was someone completely unknown,
one of the many unknown and shady young types
who dropped in there.
But he still goes to the taverna regularly, at night,
and sits there gazing toward the doorway,
gazing toward the doorway until he's worn out.
Maybe he'll walk in. Tonight maybe he'll turn up.
He does this for nearly three weeks.
His mind's sick with longing.
The kisses are there on his mouth.
His flesh, all of it, suffers from endless desire,
the feel of that other body is on his,
he wants to be joined with it again.
Of course he tries not to give himself away.
But sometimes he almost doesn't care.
Besides, he knows what he's exposing himself to,
he's come to accept it: quite possibly this life of his
will land him in a devastating scandal.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Added by Poetry Lover
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