Poems by William C. Watterson

ELEGY FOR F.O. MATTHIESSEN
(1902-1950)

At the end of the road was a door
which was a window
in a business-class hotel
near North Station.
You jumped,
knowing we are all passers-by.

The last thing you did
was take your Skull and Bones pin off,
leaving old gold on a bureau of deal.

Mattie, the boys at Harvard are still blond,
the brick of Massachusetts Hall
ruddy as the jowls of an old banker
after three martinis.
Boston is still black and white
in winter,
like a monochrome of Emerson,
his granite face
surveying the profit and the loss.

On the Charles crew jocks hunch and stroke
in the long boats,
preps from Groton and St. Mark's,
tomorrow's trustees
and members of the Corporation.
They row with the current
and the flood bears them swiftly away.

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