His, at the age of six, was to be Zorro.
Black hat and mask, a sword held in reserve—
He’d pull them from their closet pile, then swerve
Big figure eights around the houses, borrow
Whatever came to hand (they needed nerve
Those daylight raids), and take some puerile stabs
At self-disclosure—monogram, make Z’s.
The mystery of stray baseball bats in threes
Puzzled clean lawns. Likewise, both up for grabs
Wet laundry and mere mud left scattered keys
To who he was inside. He doesn’t try
These days; time’s shorter now, and he’s got less
And less to hide. His love’s his best success:
She thinks there’s more to him than meets the eye.
