He is draped in remnants of desire,
hanging shreds of yearning, a peering aura
left behind by housewives, schoolgirls, secretaries.
The man behind the lived in face is in his eyes: his eyes,
that saw his own world, where he lived,
(where he did not live in the dreams of hungry ladies,
whose dreams reflect his craft), he was, and is,
so good at what he does.
That stalking animal smolders still,
but does not roar; is it slaked by age, or satisfaction?
He knows who he is,
and he isn't ours.
It is said, however, that the camera
does not lie:
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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