The mandolin is weeping,
its strings are silent till
the Mayor does return
to touch them sweetly.
George Harrison is sweeping
a room that’s jasper filled,
still I hate the moment when
your heart stopped beating.
The glass is half unfinished
of a brew you made yourself
the atoms that it is
not soon displaced,
and the field of dreams is silent
with you off in the corn,
leaving only a computer screen’s
frail likeness of your face.
This hole you leave is hurtful;
these tears that come small comfort;
these words stand in poor stead
of your honest and unbridled laughter.
To the music halls of Heaven
and the baseball fields there too
I drink a toast to how favored they are
to welcome the likes of you.
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