Take your simian little body
To a building very tall,
Pace the observation-platform,
See how high the fall,
See the big important headlines
In the newsboy’s stall.
Think of Hilda on the sofa
Sobbing out your name,
Placing hyacinths before you
In a gilded frame
On the table where the family
Spreads in photographic fame.
Think of Benny at the tavern
In between the rounds of beer
Wiping up the little puddles
On the counter, year on year,
How he’ll tell the boys the story
With the rest they always hear.
Think, Luigi, of the factory
By the low-tide river’s stench,
How the foreman, Tim O’Brady,
Cannot stop the wrench
Of his Irish heart, when he
Passes by your empty bench.
Think of Father Rattatucci
Praying for the dead,
Untold Paters, untold Aves,
Untold Glorias will be said,
All to save you, our Luigi,
From the terrible dread.
Jump, my Christ, my dear Luigi,
Greet two million eyes
Over bathrobed coffee breakfasts,
Be the bored surprise
When the tabloids give the lowdown
How the Son of Glory dies.
