A Tenor in the Choir
His face is like a student I once taught;
Not just the pupil’s eyes, the brightness, too,
And humor in the face, with freckles fraught,
A gratifying galaxy, a slew
Of them across his cheeks, his brow, his nose.
It seems as if each stipple is a mark
Of brightness and good laughs that he will pose
In meteoric talk. There’s nothing dark
Or secret in this look. It’s like a dose
Of laughing gas or maybe a cologne
That makes unfreckled nostrils rise and smile.
It’s true: his seriousness is not alone
While chanting in the chapel’s palest style.
He’s small and short. You could say he is slight—
Except high singing is forever might.