Cary Grant

A manufactured charm,
genuine enough to cradle
hostage audiences over
two hour romances, soared
over the closeted real man.

But velvet rouge lips and
dandelion hair compelled you
like magnets on the screen,
laughing for Deborah Kerr
or fucking Grace Kelly.

The part in your polished hair
perfected aside the image;
a half-cocked grin relaxed
onto the boyish face of
a silly-handsome Scotsman
sitting spitefully crosslegged
in a tuxedo, your hard chin
daring the world not to be enamored.

So, as I kiss cellophane
goodbyes to Archibald Leach,
I wish that I could be you,
the ironic pounding of that
shared wish playing us to black.