For M.W., on the occasion of this 75th birthday
I
Forty years ago, and freshly divorced,
I was brought to Wertlieb’s house. Inspection
Ensued. There, dangled before Eleanor,
Though plausible, fated for rejection
By that same Eleanor, but not by Jeanne,
Marty; not by Woodland Hills’ upper crust.
And when I brought the woman I was keen
To wed, they hosted the post marriage fuss.
Our kids were young, and so were we—pool side
Potlucks grew to more sturdy stuff. They left,
(Remember?) to help that brute Nixon ply
His wage and price controls, left us bereft!
But they returned! Together, soon, we flew
Through the world—aged, by time and what we knew.
[I wonder, sometimes, if Eleanor found happiness.]
II
How the devil do I condense forty
Years into a couple of thin sonnets?
All those trips, finishing with that sorry
Rain-soaked windy ride through France and Holland
(Finished for me—but not for you). Gamely
You just kept on! I thought we’d seen it all—
Turkey, Bali, India—even lame
Tunisia. But you kept barging, thrall
To the magnetic pull of new visions.
Untrammeled energy, at last, set free
By retirement, forged the giant who stunned
That forensic world—new celebrity
Not seen before! Comp’s one thing, I confess—
But forensics? And for the IRS!
[Jeez!]
(1/25/08)