Gore Vidal, 1925–2012

By Gerard Malanga
        It will be a while before recollections in tranquility set in,
as time in its adversary mode of darker days
ticks on transfixing you in newsprint.
It will be a while before those sudden winds descend upon the Po.
A while before the laughter echoes in the dark;
before the sounds of seagulls and accordions, harmonicas
mix in those parting shots of long-forgotten flicks
with names like La notte brava, I Pugni in tasca, L’oro di Napoli.
Your show-offy had intelligence; not the “unconscious”
your friend Calvino claims you lacked. Ha-ha.
It will be a while before the tranquility comes round again.
A while before you’re able to get up and move about;
stare out from your Swallow’s Nest
on those dappled waters of Salerno’s Gulf, almost fable-like.
“Didn’t it go by awfully fast?”
your buddy Howard once sweetly asked.
It will be a while and sometimes more and not your last.