Rodrigo, your red tie
slips from the neck
with a serious sigh.
The shirt of many buttons,
the woolen trousers, and
the handsome shoes
forget their reasons for formality
and take their eager liberty—
delinquent and lovely without you.
I like the rudeness of the moon
that lets me look at you
without permission,
the slender bones tossed
careless as tulip stems,
the bouquet of shoulders
the dip and hollow of the skin.
Without your uniform of havoc
you are simply a man
like any other.
No longer white tiger,
my rival and keeper.
Good night, my Bengali.
This is my pirate hour.
Count one, two, three—
Rodrigo snoring beside me.
Then it is I can begin again,
to speak of love without apology,
with only the black mustache listening,
the beard cynical and stiff.