That night

I saw him:

not the imperturbable

imposter,

not the granite man,

blind

from within

his hazy vista

of gin.

​

That night,

I followed him:

cigarette smoke

streaming,

curling to cloud

when he lumbered

toward the living

room–

flooded with sound.

​

That night,

I heard him

over the hi-fi’s

keening of

Evita’s Lament–

the choice was mine and

mine completely...

and the man,

with eyes closed,

listened

so intently

that

he began

to cry.

​

A child still,

I trembled

at the sight:

his tears bubbling,

mowing pathways

through his beard

as he shuddered

at the beauty

of a dying woman’s

last aria.