Charlie didn’t want to be pushed down
that last time into his plush-lined
case, top hat and monocle removed,
head unscrewed, clever hinge of wooden
jaw detached, the lid snapped shut
and locked, for transmigration to the
Smithsonian. That night, in Bergen’s
bedroom, Charlie, in his box, got
himself together by himself and squawked:
“Edgar! You can’t make me leave you.
You can’t live without me. I’m your
larynx and your tongue. You’d be dumb
without your dummy, Dummy!” Bergen,
stung by that urbane, impudent, bossy,
caustic and beloved voice, silently
swallowed a pearl shirtstud of Charlie’s,
spiked with strychnine. Obediently,
Edgar died in his sleep. In the dark
of dislocation, Charlie, glass-eyed, tried
all by himself to weep. A tear of wood
formed and stood in the inner corner
of his left eye, but could not fall.


 =Dave Hoak