This ain’t no dress rehearsal,
Alan says with a sly grin,
this here’s the real thing.

He’s knee deep in the river,
clad only in a derby hat,
black bowtie, thong and gloves,
serving wine and canapés
from a shiny silver tray.

In the grand Doodah parade
he’s walking arm in arm
with Mr.Condom,
a milk carton in his hand
with Batboy’s two-fanged face
above the caption,
“Have you seen this child?”

At 2 AM he’s making
naked beer runs from the sauna,
wrestling young lovelies
in a tub of ramen noodles,
playing one last game of volleyball
where everything jiggles.

With his weak heart
you would have thought
The Randy Gandy Run
would kill him,
fifty cavers without a stitch
filing through
a frigid river passage.

But it was cancer took him
and old timers swear,
when they get half-crocked,
his spirit roams the campground,
attired like a racy Jeeves,
still carrying his silver tray.

(originally published in Blue Ridge Literary Prose)