Tigger
That
was him every time: he just bounced.
Always
astonished at landing on you
but
likewise pleased at the prospect of new
adventures,
he’d peer and blink and smile
and
say let’s do something, right now, while
you
sat dazed, having been thoroughly trounced.
He
was constantly, restlessly bouncing,
pulling
you with him into mad motion
with
rapid talk of that very day’s notion.
A
large lunch, two drinks and one singular book
were
the only academical tools it took
(though
grumblers were seen to exit, flouncing).
It
wasn’t so bad, really, to be bounced–
dust
off your dignity and you could call
it
delightful. Swept along on all
manner
of cloudy liberal visions,
holding
your breath at his decisions,
giddy
over the heights from which he pounced,
ever
landing on his feet, pronouncing
as
he hit the ground the next but one plan:
a
visit from the Imam of Turkmenistan
or
a new Baroque ensemble, himself
on
harpsichord, or for us all a shelf
of
required reading, on pain of bouncing.
Your
books you wrote at night, but announcing
what
you wrote in us is now our task. I say
your
bounce was the best ever; more, I lay
odds
we’ll not feel your lovely like again,
nevermore
rise from such a fortunate fall
as
you have given to us, one and all.
Sandcastles,
libraries, you built the twain:
And
both we love and honor in your major name,
since
we must learn to live without your bouncing.
July
22, 2003
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