The Enigma

For collateral he left behind,
In my possession,
His future life, stamped and preapproved
With a boilerplate letter of commendation
Portfolioed fifteen years ago June,
His volume of What I Have Done and Will Do.
From the upbeat blindness of that summer,
The optimist apex of need-to-flee youth,
The days ahead seemed rosy indeed,
And none of his chipper, nursemaiding instructors
At Iroquois High ("Go, Warhawks, go!")
Felt compelled to arm this student with facts--
That the road ahead is never paved,
Not often enough is it roughly graded,
And for most, it's a footpath through waist-high weeds
With no clear destination in sight.
But onward he trudged, wholly unaware
Of the gulfs that awaited, the pitfalls and sinks.
Nor was Fortune marching in lockstep beside him:
His forays were cursed; malevolent forces
Conspired against him left and right,
And nothing turned out as he expected.
His hopes were dashed, his loves--corrupted,
His good deeds flayed him and crippled his courage . . .
Or so he alleges.
With each misadventure he learned a new lesson
In how to shyster his way through the rabble,
And this has proved useful,
For how can an outsider tell if he's lying
Or speaking the truth?
You face him--he stares at you,
Stock-still, unblinking,
A deer in the headlamps,
With eyes as dark as blackberry cordial
That mask whatever emotion he feels.
He mines you for answers: your background, your childhood,
Your taste in music, your peeves and hobbies,
But switch it around? He deflects all delvings
Into his life with hesitant mumbles
And sidelong glances and shifty shuffles.
And should you press him, or dwell on his troubles,
The shadows surface and curdle his features,
The barrier thickens, and the lustrous eyes,
Those beads of black coral,
Founder in abject obstructive blankness
And sink to sunless, sea monster depths.
Something to hide? I have to wonder,
And that's why this "kid" (he's half my age)
Constitutes an enigma; he nettles and irks me
Far more than an enemy, so declared,
And absent a test to measure sincerity,
I'm bound to believe in a doubt-sowing sphinx.