Cologne

Affable, brilliant smile, bespoke.
Handsome Persian.
Light pomade in gray-flecked hair.
Hair short and black on the back
of his manicured hand.
A genuine warmth,
Persepolis lilt.
He knows how to flirt
with boys like me,
boys who brandish sudden money,
who ask,  "May I sample
available iterations of vetiver?"
He rings me up and plies me with vials
of Tiare, of anything else that might
excite a silent ache, a private thought.

I was two in 1979,
when his family ceased
buying whiskey openly,
started dancing in the basement
if they didn't stop completely.
Picture his sister called out,
free thought and defiance
forgotten -- better to survive
revolutionary days.
"We, too, hated the Shah
but we are modern people."
Mostly baffled and resigned.
A dream of French University
deferred to a bachelor's efficiency
thirty years and more heartbreaks later.

He shares his home
with an indifferent cat
and a deceased aunt's coffee service.
As easy as incurring a flat
tire on the freeway:
all at once a citizen
of drowsy Northern California,
cocooned in an illusion of freedom.
Seasonless fog and sand.
A comfortable single man
Alone but never lonely.
He is enviable, I think,
and has matured into desirability.
He purveys for his keep aromas we wear
when what is ours falls short.