Apollo Next Door
That first time I saw him was pure chance, a late night call of nature and a half-imagined sound from outside that made me peer past the closed curtains in the hallway; telling myself I wasn't a prying neighbourhood curtain-twitcher, ignoring the guilty feeling. Making sure the light behind me wasn't on.
And there he was, moving like greased sunlight, all grace and glow.
Now, to bed on time, alarm set, I'm up early enough every morning, before sunrise of course. All to watch him.
He never misses; sets up the shot, a little jump, muscles slide beneath bronzed Grecian skin, then the launch, the smooth arc, the shaking net. Sometimes it catches and curls around the rim, slowly looping, orbiting, before it drops through, but I think he does that on purpose, a spark of playfulness.
He dances about his driveway, his court, bouncing fire from hand to ground, around and around, the whole scene lit warmly by that flickering, burning ball. I checked one day, when it was overcast so he wouldn't see me, and there wasn't a single scorch mark on the concrete over there.
Then he leaves for work. I think he knows the time by instinct, breeding I guess, and he hitches the fire to his chariot, lashes the horses and rides out.
I put the kettle on, drop teabag into cup, watch the Eastern glow bloom across the horizon.
And there he was, moving like greased sunlight, all grace and glow.
Now, to bed on time, alarm set, I'm up early enough every morning, before sunrise of course. All to watch him.
He never misses; sets up the shot, a little jump, muscles slide beneath bronzed Grecian skin, then the launch, the smooth arc, the shaking net. Sometimes it catches and curls around the rim, slowly looping, orbiting, before it drops through, but I think he does that on purpose, a spark of playfulness.
He dances about his driveway, his court, bouncing fire from hand to ground, around and around, the whole scene lit warmly by that flickering, burning ball. I checked one day, when it was overcast so he wouldn't see me, and there wasn't a single scorch mark on the concrete over there.
Then he leaves for work. I think he knows the time by instinct, breeding I guess, and he hitches the fire to his chariot, lashes the horses and rides out.
I put the kettle on, drop teabag into cup, watch the Eastern glow bloom across the horizon.