Over the holidays the sun shines sherry—that is Jack.
He turns back to flash thumbs up in a tuxedo.
It is the year of a squadron of picked men assembled before dawn
and walked to Jack’s lookout to sip Kirsch and fly out of the sun
over Mount Ararat.
There is one order: show up.
“Codeword Bagratid”, Jack says and passes the cherry liqueur.
Norman to bone, Jack has the high ground on the ivied Yard wall, second floor.
On one side he reconnoiters dangerous Widener, on the other the Hayes Bick
where he gets his grilled cheese and tomato.
Who knows—would you prefer a prose resume
sequined in the commoditized time of Capitalism?
Harvard kept us together in the same tent, rent by war and flying apart.
That itself is fine art.
There is no end of tales save telephoning after death.
The new secretary says: “There is no Jack D’Arcy here.”
“No Strongbow in Dublin? But this is the number to his office—no Jack?”
She would check and be right back.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you this in this manner. You are his friend? Oh dear! Jack died suddenly of a heart attack. He no longer works here.”
Don’t stay down long, Jack. On the Vineyard there's a bar with iced glass steins, high-frothed head,
and Patricia Irish-eyed brown to share a bed.
[EAC copyright 2010]
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