Today we present “To the Last Memory of John and Syd” a poem by Rob MacWolf, who read the Ballad of Reading Gaol one time and couldn’t help himself. You can find this, alongside other poems, in the collection The Wind Remembers, which you can get, alongside other books, from Bewere Books. And you can find more of his stories right here on the Voice of Dog.

Read by William Dingo, the Sunrise Spectator.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/to-the-last-memory-of-john-and-syd-by-rob-macwolf

You’re

listening

to

Poetry

Month

on

The

Voice

of

Dog.

Today

we

present “To

the

Last

Memory

of

John

and

Syd”

a

poem

by

Rob

MacWolf,

who

read

Wilde’s

Ballad

of

Reading

Gaol

one

time

and

couldn’t

help himself.

You

can

find

this,

alongside

other

poems,

in

the

collection

The

Wind

Remembers,

which

you

can

get,

alongside

other

books,

from

Bewere

Books.

And

you

can

find

more

of

his

stories

right

here

on

the

Voice

of

Dog.

Read

by

William

Dingo,

the

Sunrise

Spectator.

Please

enjoy



“To

the

Last

Memory

of

John

and

Syd”,

a

poem

by

Rob

MacWolf

•
Dearly

beloved,

we

gather

here,
Where

gatherings

are

forbid,
Though

never

a grave

will

either

have,
Nor

coffin,

nay,

nor

lid,
To

drink,

at

least,

the

last

memory
To

John,

and

his

Dear

Friend

Syd.

John

was a

terror

and

reprobate
Who

blew

one

day

into

town.
His

eyes

they

glared

as

a

beast’s

would

glare
When

your

headlights

stared it

down,
And

we

all

of

us

said,

that

the

likes

of

him
Ought

not

to

hang

around.

But

Syd,

I

had

known

my

life

entire.
He

lived

next

door

but

three
In

the

early

days

of

innocence,
When

we

innocent

were,

and

free .
Though

I

would

prove

the

more

innocent,
And

he

more

free

than

me.

Together

endured

we

days

of

school.
Together

were

we

released
When

cicadas

spoke

in

the

tangled

oaks
And

summer’s

heat

increased.
Together

our

bare

feet

knew

the

town
From

Route

Eight

to

Second

East.

Together

we’d

go

to

the loon-loud

lake
When

the

afternoons

grew

dry.
Together

we’d

hike

to

trestle

bridge
When

10

thundered

by,
And

never I

noticed

his

hungry

look
That

would

follow

it,

and

sigh.

But

those

were

the

days

when

the

world

was

young.
Young

we

may

be

no

more.
This

is

a

story

too

heavy

by

half
For

my

inept

metaphor,
So

I

give

you

the

past

is

a

cage
And

time

is

a

closing

door.

Time

is

the door

that

shuts

on

us.
They

tell

me

it

shut

on

them.
And

gone

are

the

days

when

we

could

be

boys,
Now

we

are

only

men.
But

the

story

will

get

there

soon,

too

soon.
Let

me

begin

again.

•
Syd

grew

into

a

lonely

man.
Nobody

thought

much

of

that.
For

this

is

a

town

of

lonely

folk
In

a

lonely

habitat.
And

at

least

our

days

were

As

prosperous

as

they

were

flat.

But

John

blew

into

town

one

day,
Perhaps

on

a

midnight

train.
Perhaps

when

a

midnight

bus

broke

down
And

left

no

choice

but

to

remain.
Perhaps

on

a

distant

thunder

roll
And

the

far-off

smell

of

rain.

John

blew

into

town,

just

like
An

afternoon

cyclone

would,
That

rattles

the

latch

of

the

cellar

door
Where

you

shelter—as

you

should—
But

even

a

wind

so

ill

as

that
Blew

one

man,

at

least,

some

good.

For

when

John

blew

into

town,

he

found
But

little

welcome,

and

cold.
Most

of

the

town

were

unfriendly

folk.
And

most

of

the

town

were

old.
If

lonely,

yet

they

were

They

had,

and they

meant

to

hold.

I

do

not

know

how

they

came

to

meet.
I

do

not

know

what

they

said.
I

know

that

Syd

was

the

giving

sort.
I

know

that

John

needed

a

bed.
So

rather

than

alley

or

overpass,
John

lived

with

Syd

instead.

Syd

he

worked

as

he’d

ever

worked,
Diligent,

dull,

and

hard.
John,

he

would

do

the

odd

odd-job
At

the

mill

or

the

lumberyard
But

mostly

he

wandered

the

town

and

stared
At

the

taciturn

folk

on

guard.

A

few

words

we’d

exchange.

There

were
But

few

who

would

say

a

few.
Most

dared

no

more

than

a

silent

nod.
Most

kept

their “how’re

you?”
And

if

townsfolk

could

be

taciturn,
John,

he

could

be

too.

But

a

few

words

we

exchanged.

I

felt
I

owed

that

much

to

Syd.
Together

he

was

with

John,

as

once
Together

we’d

been

as

kids.
But

little

and less

I

learned

of

John
No

matter

what

I

did.

I

saw

them,

together,

from

time

to

time,
On

the

porch,

when

the

summer

sun
Was

low

and

red

and

saturated
Till

the

colored

clouds

crack

and

run.
And

in

every thing

you

could

all

but

smell
An

ending

but

just

begun.

But

together

they

lived,

and

I

liked

it

not.
It

was

Jealousy,

I

suppose.
But

John

he

lived,

and

Syd

he

lived,
As

many

have

done,

God

knows.
And

whether

they

loved

as

well

as

lived
Is

not

for

me

to

disclose.

Could

they

have

been

content

with

that?
God

knows

I

could

have

been.
A

home

and

a

life

with

one

you

love,
God,

what

more

is

there

to

win?
But

I

do

not

know

if

God

knows

if

it
Was

love

that

they

were

in.

Could

they

have

been

content

with

Four

walls,

a

roof,

and

a

floor?
Perhaps

John

was too

much

the

reprobate.
Perhaps

Syd

wanted

more,
And

we

remained

only

a

lonely

town,
And

time

was

a

closing

door.

•
The

buds

were

tight

on the

maple

boughs,
The

mud

still

froze

each

night,
When

I

noticed

it’d

been

three

days

since

I
Last

noticed

their

window

light.
And

before I knew what the matter

was
I

knew

it

was

not

all right.

And

before

I

knew

what

the

matter

was,
And

before

I

had

dared

to

knock,
I

knew

I’d

hear

no

more

answer

from
That

house

than

from

solid

rock.
But

I

didn’t

expect

the

front

door

to

be
So

open,

and so

unlocked.

I

didn’t

expect

to

find

the

place
As

empty

as

orderly.
With

not

a

speck

out

of

place

to

show
Where

John,

where Syd

might

be.
As

if

their

home

were

a

cage,

and

they
Had

managed

to

wiggle

free.

I

locked

the

door

with

the

stray

spare

key
Syd

left

on

the

kitchen

floor.
I

spread

the

word

to

a

couple

friends.
What

could

I

have

done

more?
Than

to

close

the

door

on

the

empty

house
On

which

time

had

closed

the

door.

Nobody

heard

a

word

from

Syd,
And

certainly

not

from

John.
Nobody

had

the

first

idea
Whither

they

both

had

gone.
Best

to

forget,

we townsfolk

said.
Best

just

to

move

along.

Best

just

to

move

along,

and

time
Had

moving

along

to

do.
The

seasons

passed

as

they

always

pass,
Till

half

a

year

became

two.
And

days

when

we

thought

of

Syd and

John,
As

far

as

we

knew,

were

through.

Spring

she

passed,

and

summer

he

passed,
And

autumn

brought

usual

A

dust

storm

blown,

a

Wall

Street

crash,
A

senator’s

son

recused,
And

a

broker

robbed,

three

states

away
In

a

town

called

New

Syracuse.

And

a

steamboat

robbed,

two

states

away
At

a

fork

of

the

Missouri,
And

only

a

state

away,

a

bank
In

a

town

called

Gethsemane,
And

if

any

but

I

had

more

than

a

guess
Then

no

one

guessed

it

to

me.

Autumn

was

nearly

long

enough
That

I

almost

forgot

again.
It’s

hard

to

remember

the

world

outside
In

this

town

of

lonely

men.
But

winter

blew

into

town

with

Syd
And

John,

who

was

His

Dear

Friend.

The

money

was

piled

on

the

pantry

floor,
The

guns

on

a

kitchen

chair.
In

a

house

that

was

once

next

door

but

three
And

now

was a bandit’s lair,
And

it took

too

long

to

find

my

voice
Or

do

anything

but

stare.

John

stared

at

me

as

a

beast

would

stare
At

one

lost

in

the

wilderness.
And aye,

I

feared

for

my

life

indeed,
It

shames

me

to

confess,
But

John

only

turned

to

Syd

and

said,
“He came. You were right,

I

guess.”

Syd,

he

was

suddenly

once

again
Who

I’d

known

my

whole

life

through.
And

suddenly

he

was

entirely

tales
Of

the things

he

had

dared

to

do
The

brighter

his

face

grew

in

telling

them,
The

brighter

John’s

face

grew

too.

Oh,

the

tales

he

dared

to

tell

me

then
And

swore

me to

never

repeat,
Of

midnight

flight

to

the

county

line,
Of

gunshots out

in

the

street,
Of

ever

another

getaway,
Of

never

a

sole

defeat.

Oh

the

sins

he

dared to

confess

to

me
Which

I

repeat

not

at

all,

I

swear.
Oh

the

terrible

freedom

of

a

world
When

you

do

whatever

you

dare
In

the reprobate’s

life

that

John

had

lived
And

Syd

had

longed

to

share.

And

oh

the

way

John

looked

at

him
With

every

tale

Syd

told,
As

a

weary

man

looks,

at

a

crackling hearth,
Who

has

just

come

in

from

the

cold.
I’d

almost

have

said

he

cared

nothing

for
Stolen

banker’s

gold.

I

brought

them

some

food,

for

the

house

had

none.
I made them a makeshift

bed.
And God

knows

the

things I

wished

to

say
Though

none

of

them

I

said.
But

how

many

times

could

these

many

tales
Have

ended

with

one

of

them

dead?

“Whatever

you’ve

done,”

I

finally

said
“With

whatever

you’ve

gotten

away,
What

a

relief

to

leave

it

behind,
And

have

somewhere

safe

to

stay.
For

now

you

have

riches

secure

enough
To

last

to

your

very

last

day.”

“The

riches

are

nothing,”

Syd

shook

his

head
“I’ll

stay

here

not

one

day

more.
And

only

the

day

that’s

the

final

day
Mean I

to

retire”

he swore.
“For

I

tell

you

The

past

is

a

cage,
And

time

is

a

closing

door.”

“But

the

money-”
“The

money

was

never

the

point,”
Said

Syd,

to

his

Dear

Friend

John.
“Together

we

are,

and

together

we’ll

be,
And

together

we’re

moving

on.”
They

bade

me

goodnight

and

they

sent

me

back me

home.
Come

morning,

they

were

gone.

•
Oh

Dearly

Beloved,

would

that

I

had

known
Some

better

way

to

implore
To

give

up

this

madness

and

come

back

home
And

rovering

go

no

more.
But

perhaps

it

was

always

too

late,

and

Time
Had

already

closed

that

door.

Most

of

the

money

they

left

behind.
I’ll

tell

you

not

where

it

went.
Save

only

my

mother

in

heaven

taught
That

money’s

a

sin,

unspent,
And

never

a

worker

in

town,

that

year,
Needed

worry

to

pay

the

rent.

Twas

barely

a

week ere

the

news

came

in.
From

a

bank

down

in Ouachitee.
Caution

they’d

thrown

to

the

cyclone

For

every

last

one

to

There on

the

front

page

news

was

John
And

his

Dear

Friend

Syd’s

crime

spree.

Again

they

struck,

a

Duranzo

bank.
Again they

struck, in

New

Lodz.
Every

time

they

escaped

unscathed
Never you

mind

the

odds.
Police

seemed all

perfectly

powerless
To

halt

their

proud

maraud.

Again

they

struck

and again they

struck.
The

news

was

of

naught

but

them.
And

harder

and

harder

the

newspapers

tried
Their

robberies

to

condemn,
But

ever

the

readers

fell

more

in

love
With

glorious

mayhem.

Some

said

they

were

a

menace
To