A Cradled World
(for Charles M. Schulz,
1922-2000)
The football, yanked for the final time
from his
sneaker’s arc, lies in the lush grass.
The Sopwith stands unbeagled
now;
Von Richthofen drops a wreath.
The baseball team has left the field,
its record
oh-for-forever. Linus has yielded to Linux,
and Woodstock’s
just a country town once more.
Nickel psychiatry’s but an outpatient’s
fantasy now
and the Great Pumpkin’s in the purgatory of displaced
gods,
yet wherever gawky losers pine for red-haired girls
and cub
cartoonists rush to ink their work on time;
wherever people skip first to the
funnies,
generations still will cradle your world
imploded for now, imbued
with the goodness of grief.
--Tony Hoffman
(c)2000
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