Neatly framed in his column,
notes of their love and strong regret
stand purposefully like a monochrome wreath.
A reminder that for all Emile’s vigorous living,
he’d been deprived of hosting that vengeful vine,
that which eagerly warms, then suffocates its host.
Emile was cheated by death, they say,
and so, within justified lines, the reporter wrote.
If only Emile had been alive today,
from the gallery his cane would wag, they’re sure,
at the rascal whose Ponzi returned him to poverty.
Poor Emile whose history harkens back to the coal mines,
rose to the sweet smells effected by his seasoned floristry,
and faded in a cardboard box beneath 5th and Hunter streets.
Oh what a varied life he’d known!
But could that variety make revenge such a treat
that dearest Emile ‘twould soothe?
The inescapable fact is,
what death brings, Emile now knows,
yet they wish him life unawares;
What revenge brings, Emile also knows,
yet they wish it fresh claims to him.
And while revenge may’ve enwrapped the man
in that untainted garden of judgement,
what if when black sleeves lifted, and gavel fell
no justice echoed through?
Would it then be safe for Emile’s release,
for him to greet the one we’re born to meet
but report in tales as the greatest thief?