Singing Loudly

An excerpt

Because I Wanted to Write a Happy Poem, I Thought of Harry Caray's Dying

No, not the actual instant, days delayed,
the cord unplugged, all the possible perils
of the possible -- soul not that I've in mind
his boozeless Valentine's dinner with Dutchie
the long-suffering, imperturbable wife.
His turning away the wine list with wrist flick
and head shake, lemon tottering his water
among ice. I've in mind beads his hand
stitched free raising that glass against
the stroke-addled tongue he'd wrap
around Andres Gala-Rala-Allah-Angora,
or Hector Villa-Who-New-Wave-Ahh.
Look, I'm no Cubs fan. I don't even have cable.
But Harry's "good friend" Pete Vonachen
my wife treats for diabetes, and I've driven
past Wainwright Welding in Moline whose picnic
Harry pronounced around Spike & Daisy's
50th announcement. All the malted hop
bar hopping I'll not get into, or his feud
with Augie Busch the Teutonic Turtleneck.
(continued)

by Kevin Stein

That should make one feel better.