The Gentleman

by Theodora Goss

Has the milk gone sour this morning?

are there tracks upon the floor

where you could have sworn you swept

carefully the night before?

Are the window shutters open?

Did the clock forget to chime?

Could you simply have forgotten

to set the time? Surely not.

Are the chickens agitated?

could a fox have come last night

and sniffed around their coop,

to put them in a fright?

There’s a fox that walks on two legs;

when he comes, the farmyard dog

pricks his ears and sits as silent

as a log. Unfortunately.

Is the horse’s mane completely

in a tangle, and its hide

crusted with the mud that splashed

from its hooves during the ride?

That’s how you know. The Gentleman

does love his nightly ride. And the maid

milking the cows this morning smiles

mysteriously. Oh, for goodness’ sake.

You should do something. Gather

the town together, determine to catch

the malefactor. How many of you

have had your tulips trampled,

your best cow addled, your daughter

suddenly dreamy? But. What

if he were brought to justice,

black boots in the courtroom,

black eyes laughing at you,

at the good wives, industrious,

neat as a pin in their cotton

gowns, making you feel,

well, ridiculous, and somehow flushed,

and worse, what if the cabbages

bolted, and the asparagus flopped,

and the squash were all infested

with worms. You can’t trust him.

And worse yet, what if the moon

refused to change, and the leaves

on the trees never caught the fire

of autumn. And it was your fault.

I tell you, my dear:

If the milk was sour this morning,

and the laundry is in knots,

if the geraniums are missing

from their flowerpots,

if the mice have gotten into

the bacon and the cheese,

laugh and let the Gentleman do

as he pleases. I know, what a mess.

But a robin’s on the handle

of the shovel, singing softly,

and the clouds are floating overhead.

Admit, the world is mostly

as it ought to be. Tonight the moon

will pull the distant tide,

and the Gentleman will come to take

his nightly ride. With a kiss for you

even if you don’t notice.

But my dear,

you do.

This is Portrait of a Gentleman in his Study by Lorenzo Lotto. I looked through many portraits of gentlemen to find one that seemed even remotely as though he could be mine . . . most of them seemed quite stuffy! But Lorenzo’s might be the mystical gentleman who takes his nightly ride. I recently read this poem at Mythcon, and thought I would post it here. It appears in my poetry collection, Songs for Ophelia.