Flaunting his gym-toned pectorals,
washboard stomach, fashion-
conscious locks, he worked the image
of philanderer, every woman’s
fantasy or threat.
But something tremulous inside
his gravelly baritone exposed
a small boy quivering in the dark,
his mother dead, his father gone away,
groping for explanations.
from I been there, sort of: New and Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2006), copyright Mervyn Morris 2006, used by permission of the author and the publisher.