“J.J. Astor, the richest man on board and a pariah in American polite society, was redeemed by his self-sacrificing behavior as the leviathan went down.”
—Brown, McDonagh, & Shultz
His effects sheened fine.
That must be why they found him fast.
Moneybags copped a tag—
NO. 124—gold
watch, cuff links, gold
with diamond, diamond
ring with three stones,
£5 in gold, $2440 in notes.
His mustachios glinting blue,
barbed ice from his morning gel.
We had seen him look straight ahead
as first-class jackass
heralded him from lower decks.
His New York minute
had whiffed of Midas:
he popped out little miracles
on Park Avenue,
gilding Force’s daughter
in the family way,
short-circuiting the century
in blue serge suits.
Illusions like wicker,
or Atlas groans, creaked—
like knuckles, cracked with gripping.
He changed his mind, some say,
giving way to wistful doubt by Lifeboat No. 4.
That soft spot for his second wife.
But no such grace from the Unsinkable Ship—
we watched him retire
to the starboard bridge,
to smoke with Futrelle.
Their exhale met God’s air
in trembling
puffs
