For Scott

Mozart says music is in gaps between

the rise and fall of sound, the wordless

utterances of instruments given breath

or touched with strong, silent intentions;

a good man is like that—making silence rich,

complex and deserving of a second

read, all those understated actions, glances.

He is noir—mystery opens her eyes to him.

How few, how few the gentle men in days 

where boys dress in suits too big for them,

wearing the façade of their fathers—

he would act like this, speak like this,

but there is no authenticity, just words.

But him, he does not act; the performance is real—

the quiet command of load bearing shoulders;

only his eyes and hands give him away

in how they keep everything in confidence.

He measures his steps, his engagements with dignity.

Meaning rises and falls from his lip

whether it stirs with any saying—

even the mean earn value around him.

When he dances, he looks at his partner’s wrist

and appreciates power masked by small stature;

he makes her lighter by holding the arch of her back,

careful in his lead not to lose the entrainment,

allowing her to want to be held, moved.

He knows his own strength, exuding not explaining;

even the hardness of his bones is genuine.

Such men are out of time, like found truths—

they do not mimic goodness, but embody it;

these protectors of noble being and emotion

author man in the quiet language of living.