Mostly, he was even-keeled, stoic,
the anchor in the storm; a lover
told him once he showed a range
of emotion narrower than that
of a rock.
Mostly, he lived a quiet life, alone,
reading his murder mysteries,
playing a bit of piano, tending
to animals, taking long walks
in the park.
But a few times a year, usually
during seasonal changes,
the lonely nights unnerved him,
and he drank too much and binged
on online porn.
Mostly, it helped a bit, getting
“it” out of his system, as they say;
it was crazy times, but after a week
or so, it wound down to exhaustion,
followed by guilt.
Mostly, it’s a way, the counselor
tells him, of shutting down the brain
when the wild thoughts drag him
under in a fierce riptide
And thus, it seems, he can’t be blamed
and yet the guilt—so much of it—remains.
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