Stuart Poem by Morgan Michaels

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 played 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'.

He knew the magic of making aspic.
Strange when the murk of fishy broth
And bays, clarified through cheesecloth
Ran limpid as the dew in a crystal bowl.

His dinners were symposiums
Of the clever and the pretty, laughing-
Only fair, for should such bums
Be dined and wined for nothing?

Every year or so, he published a book
Publish or perish- that's a rule of thumb
In ivy-wrought academe;
and, If you doubted, there they were- look.

Smoking he quit virtually 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.