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after Thanksgiving

 

 

Seventeen years of baseball seasons missed—

How else to measure Coach Dad’s demise?

And tonight, all snugly retired, in comfort

That was at least part his doing,

Feeling calm after a thankful Thanksgiving,

I order my granddaughter her first ball glove.

Not the Dadly tradition sizing of the leather

At the downtown Sears Roebuck,

Or later at the Hickory Sporting Goods Store,

So excited that you wear it on your hand

Right out of the store.

A process on a computer

I could never explain

The way he explained the game

One batting practice pitch,

One infield grounder at a time.

Field of dreams, field of dreams.

 

Larry's Anecdotal Evidence

 

Larry’s Anecdotal Evidence 

 

I had seen it

Fat crawling through pine needles

Where we’d cut a trail

With our dirt bikes

From the bluff

Over through the fire woods

To the big trail we took

Down to the neighbor’s carp pond.

 

I got the machete

From the cabinet

Under the sink.

Why Momma kept it

I’ll never know.

Never saw her get it out

Though Pop mightta known otherwise.

 

I carried it behind me

Across the seat

Wrapped in a kitchen towel.

The fat fucker was there waiting

Coiled next to an empty shine jug

Burton left

Against an oak stump.

 

I parked and stobbed the kickstand

While the copperhead circled

Through the leaves and storm scatter

Raising his head to strike.

He was beautiful

Perfect earth toned.

 

I halved him

With a clean stroke

The machete stuck in the black dirt.

The front half gushing blood like a hose

Struck at my ankle boot

And I lopped the head off.

 

I watched the severed head

The mouth opening and closing

Till I stomped it.

Then I wiped the machete off

Stood it in the dirt

And slung the towel

Out next to the shine jug.

 

I cranked my bike

And revved it 

Till the expansion chamber rattled.

The day was sweet and raw.

I felt good, ready to ride.

 

Hoe Boy Considers Alabama Pitts

 

Hoe Boy Considers Alabama Pitts

 

White privilege revealed

in Albany even as Judge Landis

ruled in a felon's favor,

the black shackles tightened

another notch knowing,

law-abiding and great

was not good enough

for this man's baseball--

what they wrote in

negro Philadelphia,

gray Pittsburgh,

Babe's Baltimore

while Dizzy brayed

across the river, and

somewhere in North

Carolina, the batboy

dressed as Satch

struck out

a whole town.

The tumblers are turning

 

The tumblers are turning.

I can feel it in my belly.

The dawn is breaking

Over the pine tops.

The pure wall of night

Has slowly lifted.

The old combination

Is clicking right into

Morning’s perfect space.

Not to be caught,

The night animals scurry.

The copperhead slips

Through the granite crack

Back to the ball of vipers.

The tumblers are locked.

The day is in us again.

Channeling

 Channeling

 

Sometimes I wear my dad’s last hat

When I’m mowing the grass,

A cream colored fedora I bought

Him for a late life birthday.

He wore it on preacher visits

At the hospital and the rest home

Where he was the chaplain.

Tending old souls, it gave

Him a serious look.

 

On my much smaller head

It sinks to my ears

Fending off tree limbs,

Devilish grape vines reaching

From iron poles,

No rescued souls,

No parables told.

Seventeen years, Dad’s memories grown slim,

Wearing his lid helps me remember him.