Sometimes not even behind his back
His old friends called him the chevalier d’or
Not in kindness nor even humor but envy
& each morning as he stepped
From the ancient porcelain tub onto the freezing
Ochre & maroon Mexican tiles of the bathroom floor
He could see in the mist-veiled mirror
That hard wet helmet of golden hair
He’d worn for years like an aging French rock star
Yet at certain moments on particular evenings
When the light in some desolate nightclub in Nice
Fell just right a woman who was a stranger
Might say to him how much he reminded her
Of Johnny Hallyday & then his lips would glisten
In the smoky air & his eyes
Would blink their eloquent sadness into song
& everywhere in the world weary companionable women
Would arise & touch again the soft lute of their
Most ancient & trusted troubadour