A Poem for Leo, in Anticipation of his Death

Leo Papadakis, Emeritus Professor of Song
Isn’t quite dead
Though we hope it fore long.
By June, we conject, his kidneys will fail.
Or an unwelcome clot
Will begin to set sail.
“Cancer,” opines Gilman,
“It’ll start in his spine.”
His bladder might rupture
Although a stroke’d be fine.
We begin to take bets
On the insult that’ll take him
A hemorrhage
Pneumonia
Clogged heart valves from bacon.
Why all the hunger for ill health in our colleague?
The callous indifference, the malice, the intrigue?
Understand that Leo holds everyone in a kind of
entrancement
Even suit wearing beggars from institutional advancement.
For Leo Papadakis holds a prize most dear.
And continues to hold it
Year after year.
And what is this grail, this most precious possession?
That ought to make Gilman, et al, consider confession?
It’s a grand, windowed office
Overlooking the quad
From a dizzying height
It’s his source of sang froid.
His professional cohorts
Consumed with near murderous affray
Watch Leo shuffle, alone, to his office each day.
They wait and they wait
And hope, before long,
That death overtakes Leo
Emeritus Professor of Song.