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Michael Daugherty

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Stan

for Christy Boy

A scarfaced namby pamby nimby,
Stan was a man with the attention span
of a terminally legless newt:

a gurgling cutie, a burbling beauty
blessed and cursed with the kind of thirst
which leads to brewery accountants

of impeccable repute sneaking away
from blithe sleeping wives to gaily jive
in chic leafy moonlit avenues with sweet

but cheeky young public school chaps
who might age but never quite die.
Stan was a splendidly brave man, a spend it

this side of the grave man who contrived
to have had a regret-free life
and a wife who was still on the game.

Stan was a fact and Stan is a myth
and words are the tools of wise fools,
as I could, so to speak, scream you this

or possibly whisper you that
Stan the make believe hard heart on sleeve
man of the moment and all seasons

has good reason to insist upon being
one of the too few milestones between
‘No way, Dad’ and ‘My God, what if?’

 

Page(s) 48-49

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