I.

Anton arrives on a rickshaw
  the cabbie’s clogs
   clopping a clipped tattoo
   in night traffic.

 Disembarking, the regal boy knocks
 while I'm within
   fish-eyeing Anton as some
                          sumptuous spectacle
 through the peephole pinned
                                 on my front door. 

II.

Anton had arrived on a rickshaw,
  the cool evening air
  clogging his intentions
  with a seeming calm.

Anton was resplendent
in his tailored black wool overcoat.
   His matching fedora.
   Its shiny satin ribbon.
I made him wait five hours.

I Windexed brass figurines
  finger-smudged mirrors
  neglected glass.
I Endusted oak.

Sometimes I returned to spy
  his eyes sharp set
  in ebony sockets.

III.

Anton will be arriving.
I’ll. . .
  Scurry about, a rodent
  caught in its lair.

I will start a small fire
  in the grate
     to burn my collection
     of pornography.

I will crush my paraphernalia
     beneath my shoes
     and bury the shards
     in the backyard.

I will flush my drugs
     down the commode.
I will make him wait eight hours.

IV.

According to the prophecy,
at dawn, Anton transmutes
  Into a fine-muscled feline.

The rickshaw becomes
  an Indian shrine
  adorned with fish scales
  and gold-leaf.

Christmas tree ornaments
  and minnows
  hang from the carriage roof
like icicles.

Emerald brocade
  swathed and tied with
  silken ropes
hang like fishers’ nets

V.

Anton is here
I mutter my last prayer,
  invite him into the foyer.

He is still a noble prince, 
                 no preening panther.
I extend my hand,
                       he bows instead.

I brush against his shoulder.
He disassembles 
     an abandoned marionette
a pile of paper mache, wire, and string.

I sweep Anton into my dustpan
toss his tangled soul in the trash
hang his fedora and black woolen coat
  on the door’s brass hook.