On December 14th, 1958 I saw his play.
It turned out good, the actors delivered
a truly believable rendering. The auditorium
was full. It was on 8th and Veritt,
in a rented school, a gym, or something
like that. Though packed, there were not
many seats. I’d say 70 or so were
in attendance. Even though I worked
the night before (always night shift)
I stayed awake for the whole thing.

It was the story of Daniel and the Lion’s Pit,
but set in Iowa, a farming bureaucracy.
Allegiance to Corn ran high. Soy, low,
and the Crop Satraps were determined
to equalize the balance. This meant taking
down Daniel, who was honest and good.
His silos stood like lighthouses
without spinning light beams.
Seeing them glow at sunset, on the low rolling
hills, bolstered the Regionalists. A beacon
still stood for the good and true.
He did right for himself and others, the Mayor
had his handshake ready. But the greedy
Satraps hated him, jealous he didn’t sell out.
So, they decided to kill him and let the coyotes
eat his flesh in the woods behind Alderman’s.
But how? What charge could be brought?
They contrived to leverage his goodness against him.
Their plan began by puffing up the mayor:
“Darius, may we make a suggestion
for this year’s Harvest Festival?
Anyone donating their yearly crop to God
or the Poor, and not to your good graces
and wise judgement should be decapitated
and have there home turned into a public latrine.”
The Mayor, who believed in himself, agreed.
The twist, a week before the Harvest
Festival, Daniel’s farm burned down, with him
and his family inside. Investigation, somehow,
ruled arson-suicide. Though a lie,
both Corn and Soy traded higher
than ever. The lie meant well, and was
more digestible than the truth.

They interviewed Albert after.
He was pleased with his debut,
and inhaled the accolades.
I was proud of him, too,
but left feeling a bit dejected.
What of all those lunches when we talked it through?
The nights I came over and sat by his window,
by candlelight and citylight streaming through
the blinds, searching for the tendrils?
The mornings we’d pick up coffee and review notes?
I am definitely not his muse,
but I’m for sure his friend.
This must be what friends are for,
and really, I was proud of him.
I wanted to catch him after to share my good graces,
but some people from the Highwire glazed around him.
I made my way down 8th, then up East Main
and by Corella’s. I smoked a cigarette
and got a whiskey. No one saw me,
of course, except maybe a small child
who looked through the glass.
Too young, they aren’t ready yet,
but I made a note for four summers later.
I looked at my watch. My shift was in five.
I passed through the walls and blended into the street.
I picked up daisies at Corella’s,
and stomped out my cigar (cigarette?) on the curb.
I watched the smoke rise for a while,
gasp, rise, then burn out. I began again
to look for someone new to influence.