Curly, Died Too Early

Arthur sucks pea dip from the claw and puts it down on the table.

Alexander-Groovy winces.

This tart's brilliant, says Sweezus. Artichoke and ricotta. Want some?

Arthur cuts himself a big slice.

Kierkegaard sees Arthur eating a large slice of tart.

That looks interesting. What's in it?

Artichoke and ricotta, says Arthur. Want some?

Yes please, says Kierkegaard.

Popular tart.

Kierkegaard retires to the back of the table to eat his slice.

His eye falls on the salad bowl in which Alexander-Curly is pining.

Is there anything I can get you? asks Kierkegaard.

A higher being? says Alexander-Curly.

Impossible, at a picnic, says Kierkegaard.

I thought so, says Alexander-Curly. As you see, I am cracked down the middle.

It must be painful, says Kierkegaard.

It is painful, says Alexander-Curly. Perhaps you could write me a poem?

I'm no poet, says Kierkegaard. But I believe Arthur has talent.

Yes! says Alexander-Curly. I remember the golden intentions.

I'll ask him, says Kierkegaard.

He goes over to Arthur.

Curly is dying, says Kierkegaard. He requests a poem. I put your name forward.

Thanks, says Arthur, burping up minted pea.

Arthur heads to the end of the table.

It's not far.

What kind of poem? asks Arthur. Violent? Regretful?

Yes, says Alexander-Curly. And I'd like it written out in my font.

Okay, says Arthur. That should be easy.

Alexander-Curly waits for his last (and only) poem.

The Short Tempestuous Life of Alexander-Curly, begins Arthur.

Emerged from the sand
into the cruel light of SCIENCE
I volunteered without reck.
From then I denied my true nature.
I lurked in the depths of a salad bowl.
Transported,
in a bus, the top salad bowl
of three, luckily.
The bottom one was broken.

(that WAS lucky), sighs Alexander-Curly)

Tumbled in violent waves
in search of a higher being
my claw detached, as was the claw of my brother.
One was found.
Now he will have it.
For I being stepped on, have cracked.

Sing all!
For Alexander-Curly.
He died too early.