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Another pal, Josh, a television executive, wrote: “Pyrotechnics and overwrought hoopla. It’s all too loud and too long, and there’s way too much smoke. Exeunt the poor players. Bring on the commercials!”

But his poems were never without wit, grace and rigor, even when they were about the end of things, as in the two-stanza “Exeunt:”

She’s the first lady in full since Melania got tired of hookers and rumors of hookers and hightailed it for her native Slovenia with Barron in tow—exeunt pursued by Twitter trolls—and yet, and still, it is unassuming inscrutable Kushner to whom my panicked eyes return: Harvard man, senior adviser, well-scrubbed schoolboy at 39.

At no point did anyone exeunt pursued by a bear.

I’m concerned that I might have a sudden attack of Deathbed Gravity Syndrome, and instead say something insipid, like, “All you need is love,” or something phony poetic, like “It is time for that sweet oblivion which awaits us all” or something wildly overdramatic, like “Exeunt omnes, friends and lovers, I shall go it alone from here on.”