Slave

Celts, Thracians, the man who’d
pledged himself as a bond slave

donated his son as collateral.
That July morning they gathered

in his shady colonnaded atrium
praying he’d friend them back, like

the small business they were pushing.
I had on my good tunic, an

“I have run away, catch me” collar
had dashed on dice and Alban

the dribble he'd mislaid.
Flush as Crassus, he lived in fear

someone would swipe his hoard
divide what no immortal could spend.

And just yesterday I’d caught him
petting a girl kidnapped

by Puntite pirates. Of course
she did not own her body

had no name, ancestors, goods.
Like me she had stood naked on

a turning stand while buyers
gawped and cupped their

bulging purses of gold aurei.
But he had a jealous wife; now

I was about a topsy-turvy world
him begging me to keep hush

grabbing my knee, calling me god
which often happens in tales.

@ianjmclachlan