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in some ice-cold or sun-dried travesty of sex,
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and even grandmothers seemed to have had no traffic with the flesh.
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And what distinguished the men was that they seemed incapable of age.
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They smelled of soap, which seemed, indeed, to be their
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preservative against the dangers and exigencies of any more intimate odor.
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The boy he had been shown somehow unsoiled, untouched,unchanged
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through the eyes of the man of sixty,
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booking passage with his smiling wife to Rome.
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His wife might have been his mother
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forcing more oatmeal down his throat,
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and Rome might have been the movie she had promised to allow him to see.
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Yet, I also suspected that what I was seeing was but a part of the truth,