[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 20 Mar 2005 18:07:35 -0800
After the kenote at the Marine Science lab,
on the Friday night we walked down the dock to witness a young scientist
shining a night light into dark waters.
My girls were delighted by all the wigglers and worms flitting.
No sissies they.
The study was deciphering how crab larvae swim.
Not sideways, evidently, except when we've had wine.
The next night someone rose to announce, sadly, that the dinner
speaker--Michael Crighton this time--had been unvaoidably delayed.
This is longstanding tradition;
like Godot, the Milosian speaker never comes.
At a suitable moment, I read once again my words on Straker's wake.
So many people cried, I wasn't sure this was wise.
Among academics, it's just hard to tell.
Later, I tossed some of Stephen's ashes into the fire,
and gave bits to Keith, who agreed to slip them into the sound,
tossing them off Herbert Hoover's motor yacht, which he owns.
I felt, finally, that Stephen was not merely,
as the lady says in "The Full Cupboard of Life,"
"a late man,"--he was always that--
but one truly gone a'gley.
On Sunday on the poop deck of the ferry,
I said some final and full goodbyes.
Then, faster than those speedy worms, we scooted home
and rented Eddie Izzard in "All the Queen's Men,"
from which we learned that move two of them do:
how to sucker punch someone by feigning deafness.
No doubt this will prove useful some day.
Eh?
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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