Frankie Vaughan at Stockton Globe
(by Maureen Almond)

Waist-high kicks learned behind the green door,
he’ll stroll out, straw boater tilted over his eyes,
then slow as the sun, his face will rise;
black hair shining like the wings of a crow.
Next, there’ll be deep half-laughs, half-gurgles
blended with a love song and lyric sighs,
his bobbing Adam’s apple will tease cries
from as far back as the last row of the circle.
A god, managing the shrine of night,
he is our omphalos of the world.
Dust babbles like a brook in his spotlight,
the Globe becomes the navel of the earth.
Pancake masks melt in the moonlight;
the rest left to him, we adore for all we’re worth.

(Oyster Baby, Pub. Biscuit, 2002 p.18)