The Memorial

Photo by Rhodi Alers de Lopez on Unsplash

They held the memorial today for Roger “Stumpy” Mcghee.

Stumpy had retired eight months earlier

After twenty-five years a policeman;

His last seven years as chief.

He will be missed.


The Memorial started with Beatrice playing

Some of Stumpy’s favorites on her harp.

She started with Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train,”

Segued into Monk’s “Well You Needn’t,”

And rounded off with Newman’s “Short People.”


She demurely bowed and turned things over

To the people who wanted to speak.

They turned Stumpy’s wrinkled uniforms into golden armor,

His baseball cap into a halo,

His bigotry into a stand against Political Correctness,

And his violent nature into protecting the city.


I don’t know why I had been asked to write a poem for today.

Perhaps they thought  I knew him from my times in the drunk tank.

Perhaps they were right.

I couldn’t find the proper words.

Instead I recited an appropriate poem.

It was Shelley’s Ozymandias.


It is a good poem for anyone

Who embraces power.

Beatrice betrayed

My neighbor, Beatrice was walking

Photo by Tristan Colangelo on Unsplash

Through the mall yesterday;

Looking bereft because her handsome

Husband, Maximillian had left her,

And had taken up with Jock,

The symphony’s tuba player.


How could he abandon

The willowy, blonde harpist

For the hairy, knuckle dragger?


Does Max find rugged

Good looks more pleasing

Than the ethereal beauty

Of his whispery nymph-like wife?


What the hell, Max!

Corrine may soon be coming

To right this wrong.

Who is guilty? Who is not?

Her limpid eyes!

My party dress is ripped.

And so am I.

Who ripped my dress?

Was it Toby?

Was it Donald?

Was it Lucy?

I know that it

Was not Beatrice.

Whoever it was

Had dirty hands,

A dirty mind,

And bad breath.

Step forward nasty cur!

Beatrice Plays

My world. Today

Beatrice plays her harp

And I am content.

Now she plays

Clair de Lune

And I envision her

On the beach.

Playing slow motion volleyball

In a bikini.


I twiddle my thumbs

Because my big twiddler is gone.

She launches into

Beer Barrel Polka.

The Weathering of The Fence

Sweet Memories

Night shadows.

Why must there always be

Night Shadows?

Greasy boys chase dogs,

Prim mothers get drunk,

Fathers chase slatterns,

And Beatrice plays her harp.


The fence continues

To weather.

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