Call all the mourners: Henry Shearer’s dead.
Won’t cruise the Pig again; won’t soak his fries
with ketchup while his glowing Winston dies;
won’t peg his sleeves with Madras blue and red.
By smooch and smirk he marshalled up his zone,
but sometimes made it known—in his sly grin—
that the steel star he wore was mostly tin.
Like most of us he walked his beat alone.
The night streets nominated him their king.
His fender-skirted Ford, its hubcaps bright
as war-steeled stars about to blitz the night,
would shoot the moon, its mute bewildering.
He knew the tender melodies by heart,
but Sirens found him, bone-yard lonely, stole
his tender note to inanimate his soul.
St. Michael, I pray, deflect each fiery dart.
*****