William Corbett
For Philip Whalen
Sulmona Meat Market
the son, cute, blond,
gold chain and earring,
sideburns like Valentino’s
he likes Oakland on Sunday
by a field goal
Saxaphone and Shotgun store?
Gone
a new ristorante
in the land of the bean and cod
where North Shore ladies came to get schrod
risotto, papardelle, cod’s cheeks
for the Big O
This Thirteenth day of January
his funeral at the graveside
the priest’s foot slipped
spooked perhaps by Allen’s Buddhist chant,
the Pony Express riders, long hairs, kaddish,
“midst simple life of country folk,
yes, some of these days…”
he hit the pedal wrong
Olson’s casket lurched down, tilted,
stuck and the priest raced through
his semaphore
snow like torn tissue
blows down over the harbor
and out over Minot’s Ledge,
north over Ten Pound Island
’twas afterwards we repaired
to the Tavern, the entire company,
thirsty, “Just like Charlie,”
moaned the bartender, “to get buried
when I have my hands full!”