at the end of a dark day / at my mother’s wake / i experienced a discordant hallucination / for by the funeral home door / guests streaming by him / stood the short / grinning / gum-snapping drum teacher of my teenage years / chick chicolus

of course it wasn’t him / if alive he’d be a creaky antique / not this sure-footed / hands-on-hips / crowd-parting visage / born of my exhaustion and grief

but the ghost kept staring at me / reveling as i wrestled with rising confusion / so finally / admitting derangement / i spoke to it

mr chicolus?

and i should have known / considering the theatrical / spot-lit entrance he’d just made / that it actually was him

ninety-four years old / it turned out / and looking no different / i swear / than when i biked to his house for lessons on his ancient drums / his bass drum big as a washing machine tub / museum pieces / really / from his youthful career as a vaudeville-style drummer

chick strode up and shook my hand / without a word about our loss / as he was too pumped by his effect on me for such formalities / a condition i stoked by stepping away from the receiving line / calling over my two grown sons / and chirping to them / like a distractible thirteen-year-old/ an introduction

to this expanded audience / chick talked about his teaching days / how he’d take four drum students to residential homes for children / with special needs / who would clap along / with perfection / to our purely rhythmic routine / then he talked of the acts he played for way back when / the singers / dancers / jugglers / and comedians he’d get laughs for / with his bottomless bag of sound effects / i remembered their signed / glossy head shots / mounted in his basement drum studio / photos hopelessly dated and corny / to a youngster yearning to inhabit the cool precincts of jazz

then even my dad and my sister / as they couldn’t help but notice / came over / the wake a temporary house party / with chick at the center / acting out a stream of jokes and stories / while snapping his ever-present gum then at the top of his game / he shook our hands and headed out / we all but breaking into applause on his waving exit / he never having paid his respects to my mother / who would have smiled like the fan of his she was / and approved / for she knew his only seemingly / cruel code

the show must go on