He wrote and drank and drank and wrote and drank.
He suffered from depression. Before all
this, he drank himself into the sick tank
for tuberculosis. I guess you’d call
his stay a spiritual experience:
there he first pledged himself to playwriting.
He won Pulitzers, the Nobel. You’ll wince
to hear he disowned his daughter, felt sting
of two sons’ suicides. Of course, divorced
a couple of times. Man, it makes me sad
they never lived that wilderness, his source
for youthful fantasy. Tremors so bad,
his last decade of life he couldn’t write.
That moon made me think about him tonight.
In Manhattan, for a few years I worked
near Times Square. Would often cross 43rd
Street and Broadway. Finally saw the plaque
nailed to southeast corner building’s absurd
pillar, giving it purpose: It marks his
birthplace, once a hotel, now a Starbucks.
Reads, “America’s greatest playwright.” This
still rings true. Hundreds of walkers, cars, trucks,
buses pass that plaque each day, not knowing
it’s there. But I do. And now you do. So
if your personal equation’s going
to NYC, pay homage. Whisper low,
“Man is born broken. He lives by mending.
The grace of God is glue.” Angels will sing.
Roger Armbrust
April 25, 2010
