[He Knew His Vulnerabilities]

He knew his vulnerabilities and concealed them:

Nostalgia, naiveté, wonder. They could hurt him in

the long run-inviting ridicule as sugar attracts

flies. So every sunset, well, he'd seen better.

Luxury, women, the routine frontiers of pleasure -

he gave the impression that something was always

missing. But deep inside he was the child singing

alone in an empty room-chipped white paint and

bare floors, late afternoon light through a single

window. Still, the concessions of adulthood had

strained his voice, his song was smaller-nothing

like the symphonies he had composed when young,

his astonishment's rich polyphony. And yet this

present song-this melodic whicker, a groan of

several notes, a droning bombination-what else

remained to help him begin the day and accept those

compromises which the day would force upon him

in return?