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


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