This one makes me roll my eyes a
bit. But the rhymes are perfect, so it’s a poem all right. The rhymes are crisp.
Only “lord” and “record” aren’t perfect, but they’ll do.
“we judged him when we did not
know / and we did judge him wrong”. I’ve dwelt enough on the maladjusted
nebbish persona, but of course it’s a consistent motif. Here it’s a bit more
complicated than just a clever exercise in run-of-the-mill self-pity, because
much of what Henry is being “tried” for happened after his death. So he’s not
guilty by reason of death. Other people are the causes. He’s just lying there
quietly in his box, meat with a voice. It’s kind of funny, actually, but
remember: It’s all a dream! But in the end maybe that’s just an excuse for run-of-the-mill
self-pity anyway. The wound behind all this is real enough, and tragic enough,
that the poet gets a pass.
I’ve never been called for jury
duty, and the idea of studying law or becoming a lawyer always made me break
out in a cold sweat. Nothing could possibly be further from my talents and
interests, unless maybe it’s a Washington lobbyist for the coal industry, male
pole-dancer, or Weepsy the Melancholy Birthday Clown. Actually, there’s a lot
now that I think about it. But I hate regulations, and rules only matter in the
breaking, and quit telling me what to do anyway. Who do you think you are?
Henry will emerge from his coffin
eventually, likely none the worse for wear, though having learned some sort of
important lesson.
Here’s what I really think: Even
for a Pulitzer Prize winner, some days are better than others. Same goes for
me. Excellent rhymes though.
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