A Shark Tale
We all loved you as Diamond George,
a grounded constant who fed our hangovers
every Sunday afternoon.
You were always loaded with stories,
loaded with cash, always loaded.
Yours was the best clam chowder out west,
and I wanted you to cook for me,
to have that half-cocked smile,
those chef’s hands attending only me.
The last time I saw you outside
that seaside café, with your feet bandaged
and resting on a canvas chair,
you convinced my young sons
that a shark had eaten your toes.
They believed your vivid brown eyes.
They believed your Bogart voice.
They believed the man I once knew.
But none of us could guess
what you knew then.
That you would be gone soon.
That the restless shark, forever hungry,
would take the rest of you
without a sound in your sleep.