My brother recently passed

[libodem]

13. Picture

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Poem:

Perfection Wasted
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole lifetime to develop an market-
the quips, the witticisims, the slant
adjusted to just a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

-John Updike