Stuart
His birthday was the same as Shelly's.
He played John Field nocturnes on the piano.
Twice a year he supported public radio.
He knew everyone worth knowing in Philly.
He betook Hamlet, Denmark's mad prince
At Michigan or Harvard or some such place,
And his papered wall did grace
A signed page of 'Tiny Alice'.
His was the magic of making aspic.
Strange when the murk of fishy broth
And bays, clarified through cheesecloth
Emerged limpid as the dew in a crystal bowl.
His dinners were symposiums
Of the clever and the pretty, laughing-
Only right, for should such bums
Be dined and wined for nothing?
Every year or so, like clockwork, he wrote a book
Or two-publish or perish-that's the rule of thumb
In ivy-wrought academe;
If you didn't believe it, there they were-look.
Smoking he quit in a trice, overnight.
Scotch was never so easy.
His living room was oh, so tidybright.
His bedroom sombermessy.
When she grew old he brought his mum
From Detroit, to live in the spare room.
Rather than one kid he had many, thru
The miracle of substitution.
He was a generous, funny, civilized man
Who could take for granted the love of many,
But didn't. Never hope for a better friend-
Now he's gone, I heard.Pity!
Pity. How young we all were.
Pity how supply our knees did bend!
Death, when we lack the breath to mount the stair,
Why, instead of you, can't we just disappear.
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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