(in memoriam D.J. Enright, 1920-2002)
The tribute has bogged down in rehearsal,
the celebrants rounding on each other
like children in a schoolyard,
shrilling the mad logic of their elders.
Age gathers to it responsibility,
eyes bigger than its stomach.
The fingerpointers in the cafeteria
have pariahed the fat boy
and time stands still,
crying shame shame shame.
The guest of honor overhears the blow
by blow and slinks away,
his cold eye casting his skulk
as little more than satire
cheaply shot and safely passé.
Perfidious. That’s the word, or
one of them.
The man they wish to celebrate
is on the verge of tears,
unmanned by the effort
of hiding his perfidious past.
Anti-this, neo-that,
the blue walls of a call girl’s room
closing in like the Sea of Cortez
over Juana and her runaway prince.
He extends his arms for balance,
stands naked at review,
the catcalls echoing in his head,
silence coming in narcotic waves.
The blond wig doesn’t suit
the girl they’ve given him,
her little dance is putting him
through the tumblies and the dizzies,
her use of his general’s sash
spells trouble if that winking
mirror is the madam’s blind,
the keys she dangles
between her dripping breasts
promise to unlock what?
He can buy his way from
scandal to retirement, a coastal breeze
beside a wintry sea
will do his chancres good.
She shouldn’t start what he can’t finish
but she’s on her knees with a
nurse’s confidence and his delight
the furthest thing from her mind.
I’ve jotted down a few brief remarks.
How few, to be exact? How brief?
My life is nothing that I’m proud of.
That should get their attention.
Toss in an anecdote, perfect the tone
of chuckle and wipe.
Tell them what you get up to
when you’re up to no good.
In Sister Lola’s bluewalled chapel,
getting your bruises kissed
while she adjusts the blood pressure cuff.
Tell them the worst is yet to come,
sunlight on a cold misshapen island,
sunlight bouncing from one steel helmet
to the other
as the heirs and volunteers
file ashore to the anthem
buzzing on the radio.
The sniper in his sheepshat dunes
turns his conscript’s cap peak to back
and sights along their schoolboy line.
Stateside bullies shoulder their way
into the children’s recital,
humming harmony like pigs in silk.
I’m sorry if I’ve let you down
but everyone enjoys a good state funeral, no?
You call that half-mast?
Lola here has got a few words
she’d like to say, just as soon
as she’s gargled and flossed.