By Jane Marla Robbins
It was the virus got him in the end – crazy cowboy.
The stroke didn't. Paralysis didn't. Not even being unable
to say anything but the one syllable, “Juh,”
this rowdy, brilliant, naughty boy, verbal acrobat,
neurotic, grounded actor who worked
with the best of them, Coppola, Avildsen, Forman.
He taught, directed, could talk anybody
under the table. Then could only utter “Juh.”
He said what got him through his cancer
was knowing I was there. Not that we spoke then.
We’d really only heard each other at workshops.
Where we bared our souls. Hard not to love a bared soul.
We had a sweet first date, lay on LA grass, smiling,
green underneath us, then went back to his place
where he excused himself, to the bathroom.
And then emerged, naked. One hundred percent. Naked.
Nothing half-cocked about our Allen. All out there.
I did say it was Too much too soon; he didn’t disagree.
It was Allen. All in. We never had another date.
Even when he was in a wheelchair, the nurses told me,
he flew out of The Actors Home to find sushi
across the freeway. In a wheelchair! Didn’t do things
halfway, as I said. Nurses couldn't catch him.
No one could. He could barely keep up with himself.
But the virus got him; and he’s gone.
Still, I imagine he talks to me: We weren't meant
to be together – not like that. But we’ll always
be together, I’ll always love you. And keep writing.
Finish this virus book. You owe it to yourself,
to me, and to everyone who’s been moved,
and inspired by your poems. Don't be shy. Don't hide.
Write. Put it out there. Do it for me. Do as I did:
Put yourself out there One Hundred Percent.
While you’re still alive. After that, you can’t.
