Old Sport.

That story built a home in my heart

for whatever reason. The story I found

in the late October. The one that lasted

forever. I don’t know why. Perhaps

it was because I felt you resembled him

in a way. Not his actions, they were sometimes

cruel. But his passion. The passion Fitzgerald

breathed into his extravagant simplicities.

It looked like yours.

 

Maybe because I pretended it was you on that stage.

Your figure immortalized in incandescent light.

Your voice echoing from sound panel to sound panel.

This story was more than a high school reading or a play.

It fueled thoughts of you, even before you went away.

I imagined what your story would look like laid out,

word for word, on the page. Unexpected the critics

would say. A cliffhanger no one saw coming.

I wish I had the power to write that story. But I don’t

know how to hold the pen that signs your name.

 

I will watch you again, some day.

Up there on the stage. Gleaming in

angelic light. I’ll sit and smile

at all you have done. Just like you

did, on that autumn evening,

in that dim theater, six months

before you were gone.