Bust of a Young Man (from the Burrell Collection)
Bronze. Roman copy, made in the Eastern Mediterranean. 100 BC – AD 100
I’m nineteen, I’m ancient.
I am so hungover
one of my eyes has fallen out…
He’d come in every Saturday morning,
looking rough as fuck. Chipped skin
on what was left of him:
not much more than his face,
shoulders, and nipples.
He had a permanent expression of discomfort
slapped across his remains,
and his bronze looked rotten
in the cafe’s lights.
I used to wonder about him, and try to picture
what a party in Tartarus might look like.
I would dream about how it might feel,
to ruin metal like his every weekend,
instead of pouring out coffee for the brunch rush.
His friends always had to cut up his breakfast.
They would push the eggs past his lips,
stiff since antiquity.
But he was always so polite.
Come midday he’d be off,
no doubt for a sitting, or a photoshoot,
or simply posing behind glass for the afternoon.
Around then the constant coffee refills
would heat up my arm,
making all my oils run.
By the time he was waving goodbye
my colours would be dripping over the counter,
showing the rough, loose sketches underneath.