Yesterday,
with
Ulysses S. Grant
on my mind,
in the warm,
winter weather
with blue skies
and whispy clouds,
I walked to my
childhood school
on my way
up the hill
and happened
upon a sight
straight out
of 1959.
A snowy field
smudged
by kid boots,
a dozen big snowballs,
rolled up
like Easter Island heads,
as large as,
maybe,
three 8 year olds
could push.
What a sight!
Soiled,
grassy,
big,
snowballs,
peppered across
A field
I once played on
60 years ago!
Wow!
It was beautiful.
Just to the south
of this field
the same rusty high fence,
like Trump’s dumb wall,
still keeping
the junk people out.
Over there,
to the east,
‘cross 10th,
a football field where I stomped
full on
for Kenny Johnson’s
marching band.
To the north,
a kid gym,
with
glass block windows,
where
I waited discovery,
glancing
nonchalantly
over my left shoulder
half-looking
for that
Celtic scout.
I was
the fastest runner
in the 4th grade,
that is,
until the Schuelke boy,
with his
aerodynamic flat top,
whipped me.
Then,
in the moment,
I started to sing
in the mixolydian, ...a cantoring voice,
the sound
bouncy and clear,
by that salvage lot,
amidst
the easter snow balls,
kicking one
still frozen tight
like those
muscly walkers
two blocks away.
A ways over,
on the tarmac,
Miss Ida,
my muscly teacher
that year,
pitched softballs
at recess,
calling her own
balls and strikes.
Once my
fat-bat-broke…
(Well, Harvey Knicks’
dad's bat.)
…hitting her hard
on the right shin
leaving a dent
she went
to the grave with.
(Blowing out air. Phew.)
After that
She hated me
more than ever
and wouldn’t let
me sing in the choir.
I already
couldn’t dance,
wouldn’t dance,
a note from the pastor,
a Baptist thing.
Another dumb fence.
She would’ve
hated these
mixed up,
made up songs
but… I didn't care
cuz…
she’d been dead
for 30 years.
But...
It wasn’t her fault,
Not really.
Life was shit
for muscly woman
in those days…
…and she had
big letter books
at the back
of her classroom
'bout Hank Aaron,
Abe Lincoln,
and Ullyses S. Grant,
just waiting for Pizza,
my crazy dog,
to chew up.