LAMENT FOR BUDDY HARE


If I bring them flowers to speak words
on my behalf, I hope they will not test
my knowledge of the language. If the birds
beyond their window serenade, the best
that I can do is recognize a crow.
Little I remember, less I know
of words for beauty, proper names for life
that sings and blossoms in a world of trees
and gardens.  He had children, and a wife.

Oh, I could tell them tales of sand and fleas,
of landing strips in Chad, of Buddy Hare
who kept us greased and fueled until he died --
what’s the use?  He’s gone: no music there,
no birds or flowers.  We got drunk, and cried.

 

Howard Brown

Please email me if you want to contact the author.