Hello, brother Statue.
You are glorious, your war never over,
yet even the lawn rises in spite of your noble pose.
The trenches here are manned with daffodils.
I have felt them, gobbed with afternoon sun,
drunk as sailors on the stuff.
Did you know I was in love once? For five days.
There was an administrator, and the way she spoke,
with those hard R's and soft K's,
I longed for her interview
and to offer my responses, as I do for the daffs,
but inside, and without words.
By the end of the week she was gone, like your comrades I suppose.
Now you have new ones--
with avid wings and so they must be angels.
Go to the light, brother Statue.
I've heard that said.
Dr. Bigelow will unwrap me tomorrow
and....then? Why, then I will be twenty-two again,
and gather my cook books and crochet from their grave-boxes.
If I find your comrades, I will kiss them for you.
Then, I might even hire a car.
My hair wild from the wind, I'll just show up,
like one of your homing pigeons with a message.
Brother Statue, if you hear an opening door, a hard R and a soft K,
be gentleman enough, old friend,
For Izy's Out Of Standard: "Waiting for...."