He keeps challenging the fates, but the fates
have proved kind. To him, not the killed or those
he apprehends. Cat quiet, his eyes hate
the crimes. He studies their scenes, so composed
yet lonely. Then, tonight, we see him love
and be loved. She’s a concert pianist,
gentle as a Chopin nocturne. He proved
gentle, too. Hopes to see her soon. They kissed
at the train. But now we sense he’s running
out of time: age and inhumanity’s
mad abuse. Memory’s slipping. Cunning
and season can’t help him. Fates’ vanity
always decides: Love again, or escape
unwilling to his father’s stark landscapes.
Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2016
