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On hearing word that dear Rick had departed,

Numbness pained my sense;

Wondering if our friendship had restarted,

Whether we might have frolicked hence.

Alas, we never shared Beta Theta Pi deeds,

Nor have I ever donned buckskin, feathers, and beads.

The dead, I suspect, linger awhile,

To hear living folks pay their respects;

In the case of dear Rick, I think I will smile,

Should someone dare mention his defects.

As thespians are wont to do without regret,

Dear Rick adopted some odd personas;

With English propriety he made people fret,

And sang mountain man lyrics about big cahonas.

Rick’s closest thespian brother,

Hugh Coleman was his name,

Has waited to reserve heavenly bookings,

Where Rick might still garner some fame.

Without any ire, we can envy their happy lot

And revel with the gods,

As they engage Rick and Hughie in some histrionic plot.

If god in his infinite wisdom is calling the thespians home,

He must be producing a hit or a play,

Or some other event of stupendous array;

In which Hughie needs a straight man with style and aplomb.

Perhaps I’m stuck anew, at last,

In recalling a world that’s passed;

We bring back to life memories galore,

Imagining we might have stayed in touch, oh sure!

Indeed, I scarcely knew Rick of late,

But who can feel sure or take time to wait,

Until he has been well understood,

When, sadly, most people die unknown in the hood?

With dear Rick gone, we have reason to fuss;

A spot in our deepest part lies infinitely barren,

For his death diminishes us.

Yet we do care to remember:

So many things,

So many rooms,

So many stops in worthless places;

To think is to recall the sorrow and faces,

My dull brain perplexes;

We hear each other groan,

When frailty shakes a few, increasingly gray hairs;

Better, it seems, to drink up life,

Shun weariness, fever, and strife;

And perch boldly on that perilous brim,

Prepared to trek one day

With mountain man Rick into the forest dim.

February 2011