The old man, besuited, fedora wearing, is singing of long ago love but this is no hearts and flowers and moon in june moment,
this is sex and drugs and rock and roll
and it ought to be ridiculous, ludicrous, perhaps even embarassing, but it’s not.
It’s tender and it’s funny and it’s rude and he smiles at the memory and I smile too at his remembering
And I watch him on stage, moving carefully, but sure, confident,
And the ever present backing singers, the girls and when he moves amongst them, there is nothing avuncular about his gaze.
I wonder if he still feels ugly, still cowed by notions of beauty ?
How much does a man need to be loved before he feels himself to be a man ?
I wonder if he still thinks of you at all?