The Chaperon

The chaperon slipped away

From his noisy boisterous kids,

Let them rejoice in the foreign hotel without him,

His joy in the tour was wearing thin,

And as the sun went down,

He sat and stared into the dark waters

Of some nameless foreign canal

And he knew regret,

Not for what he had done,

But what he had wanted,

The lie upon which he'd built his life,

The secret shame that never let him rest.

He sat there, and the cold rains predictably

Misted the darkening sky,

And the canal turned to blood in the setting sun,

And he felt the wooden slats shift,

And looked up at his fellow traveler

As another lost soul sat on the damp bench.

In annoyance that someone would disturb

His traditional vespers of self-pity,

He turned, 

And his heart lurched to his throat,

For the one who shared his bench

Was an apparition,

A manifestation,

An avatar of his own secret shame,

And he was beautiful.

There, beside him, sat an angel,

A boy no more than sixteen,

Holes in his hand-me-downs

Showing knees a little too skinny,

And his eyes, though partly obscured

By unkempt bangs dripping rainwater on his cheeks,

Looked the chaperon full in the face,

And their eyes locked,

Each recognizing something familiar in the other,

Each for the first time

In a long time

Making eye contact with another human being.

The boy had the face of an angel,

An angel who had been often hurt,

And as he licked a whisper of chocolate foam from his lip

And snuffled in the rain,

The chaperon felt his heart beat like a planet

And the pressure of his unconsciously held breath

Was making his eyes water,

And the boy smiled, and said,

"Hey mister, you look so alone,

And if I had one to offer,

I'd offer to take you home,

But I got a cup of chocolate,

And if it'll make you smile,

I'll let you have a little

And stay with you awhile."

And he held out his paper cup,

And the chaperon,

Though he remembered at last to breathe,

Could only close his eyes,

And the rain-soaked brim of his hat

Dripped maddeningly on his face,

And he prayed the moment would pass

Before he expired.

The boy saw his pain,

And knew the man's secret fire,

And put his free hand on the chaperon's knee.

"I understand," he said, "you are afraid—but it's okay,

No one's watching,

And I can see what you want,"

And the chaperon marveled

That the boy could sound so mature.

"It's okay, I know what I'm doing," he said,

And took the man's hand,

And gently pulled.

"I can't," croaked the chaperon,

But he stood for the boy,

And walked after him.

The chaperon had always been good with the boys

At the private school where he taught,

And gave them a love of history,

And a thirst for knowledge,

And a piece of his soul for each one,

But when the day was over,

No boy could find him.

He hid from them,

And resisted his secret burning,

And fiercely exorcised his flesh

Night after night,

And never so much as touched a one,

Though more than one would have welcomed the attentions of

The handsome and earnest history professor,

And he availed himself of art photos,

And hid his secret shame,

And married a mouse of a girl who was glad

To receive what little attention he could spare,

And threw himself into his work.

And here he was,

Walking along a nameless foreign canal

Holding the hand of a beautiful boy

Who burned with a fire of his own.

And he was a chaperon

For teenage boys

On a school trip

To exotic lands

And a defender of their supposed innocence

And he followed that boy to where he slept

Beneath a bridge,

And, out of the rain,

Allowed himself to be kissed,

Tasted the chocolate from the long-cold cocoa

Diluted with rainwater

On a park bench

By a nameless foreign canal.

The boy said,

"Hey mister, you look so alone,

And if I had one to offer,

I'd offer to take you home,

But I got a cup of chocolate,

And if it'll make you smile,

I'll let you have a little

And stay with you awhile."

And when the kiss was over,

The chaperon hurt the boy

In the only way he could,

He left him alone,

And ran, ran in the rain,

Along the nameless foreign canal,

Back to the hotel,

Past the half-open doors

Where the boys were raising hell in their underwear,

Playing tag in the halls

And snapping towels at their comrades,

And the chaperon ducked into his room just in time,

And collapsed on the floor

And thanked the luck

That he shared his room with no one.

And in an orgy of self-loathing he sat down at the desk,

And he wrote a note to the world,

"Not because I did anything wrong,

But because I wanted to."

And some of the boys who loved him

Guessed what the note had meant,

But it baffled the police and teachers,

And when the boy told his friends

They laughed and said he was a fool,

That America was cursed by Puritans,

That he was sixteen, after all,

But the boy still hurt inside,

And thought it was his fault.

He'd said,

"Hey mister, you look so alone,

And if I had one to offer,

I'd offer to take you home,

But I got a cup of chocolate,

And if it'll make you smile,

I'll let you have a little

And stay with you awhile."

And those who understood

Never told his wife,

And the sad chaperon became

Another mysterious suicide

In a nameless foreign hotel

And the look on his face

Was as sad in the end

As it was on the bench in the rain

When an Angel tried to save him,

But he refused the drink,

Fled the kiss,

And died in his own fires,

Swinging from a hotel pipe

By a nameless foreign canal.