"He never married." True, he never did,
but that phrase is wrong, its smirking shorthand
applied in times more circumspect to guys
with studio deals and houses in Bel Air.
Their ostentatious dates with cover girls,
deployed like potpourri, could never quite
beguile the common nose, the public hunch.
Confirmed bachelors all, they never married.
And nor did he, but that's "not him at all."
Heron-like, with darting secretaries,
in hushed precincts where sunlight rarely came,
reserved and watchful, strung out on old jazz,
abjuring garlic, shunning foreign soil,
the predatory recluse sought his pale brides.
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