Mom was light by December

and Daddy told everyone

Kate Smith waited a few days

to Bless America

because of me.

I walked home from school,

past the Cross Roads,

where “that devil Forrest”

beat Sturgis at home 96-223,

before heading out

to battle

carpetbaggers and scalawags.

It was here Ma and Pa

ran the store

while I sat and listened,

as Bobby cracked the Shot

That Made Me Cry.

I too hit the ball hard,

but couldn’t make it

’round the base paths

fast enough.

Dejected, I left Juco

and went to State U where

The Great Southern Pen

was waiting for me.

Making good,

I taught on a foreign coast.

I showed kids 

how to lunge for the ball.

Years later,

a diving catch saved The Game,

but the home team lost.

I returned home

to a land divided

twice over.

As colors ran together,

students fled into my classroom.

Many cried rivers

but met their duty

like my devil dog son.

I have taught The Pen

(and The Bible)

time and time again,

around the world,

and on tv.

Time is my misfortune.

I Google myself,

and am met by

a transgender photographer

from South Africa.

As I stare out the window,

at orphaned cotton,

desperately clinging

to jaundiced stalks of Johnson grass,

wafting like goose down

in the breeze,

I catch a glimpse

of my reflection:

A myopic, half-deaf

gimp waiting for cancer.

I consider Richard Cory.