Behind his public smiles, that open face,
a private door. He holds the only key.
It closes on a sphere at odds with almost
everything he wants the world to see.
He might admit some privileged visitor –
one who is sympathetic and discreet –
more likely take its secrets to the grave
and leave all understandings incomplete.
His fear is that one day some mishap may
occur – that he mislays the key, or worse
suffers an accident, a seizure, someone
betrays him, or just blunders in, perverse.
Then come the pondering policemen, cameras,
the reporters tramping through, and what they see
may puzzle or may scandalise. It could be
a collection of exotic lingerie,
or well-oiled weapons; maybe a case of censored
books, even the rubber mask and chains;
or just a pencilled map to wrong streets of
the city, shelves of immaculate toy trains,
Tony Lucas
.