Voices from the Past sample poems
Lady
She’s corgi. Mom had her since a puppy.
My mom, Willett, went into Cresthaven, she
couldn’t keep her. Is there a newsletter?
Oh, a webpage. If you could put up Lady’s
picture. She is a sweetie. I think Lady was
the only one Willett knew towards the end.
Cresthaven didn’t allow dogs, so Willett
couldn’t have her. We have her in a crate
in the foyer off the kitchen. Sam and I,
we have two teens, we’re out all day and
Lady’s fine. She’s seventeen. Oh, a place
in Weatherford takes seniors. That’s a drive
from Ozona. Like you, I’m out showing
properties. Sam’s on call with Texas Power.
The kids with their activities, Michelle’s
in band. Maybe your webpage. Lady’s
a sweetheart. Willett, people used to say,
she is just like your child. We had dogs
growing up in Witchita Falls. No, we can’t
keep her. That’s out of the question.
A shelter here in Ozona. I hadn’t known.
That would be better than taking her
out and dropping her in the Sandhills.
We can’t keep her. Sam has allergies.
Michelle had a hamster but she’s not much
into animals, nor is Mike, our son. Maybe
someone at the shelter — I didn’t know
there is one. It’s overcrowded? Someone
maybe will drive her to that place in
Weatherford. My uncle had a dog got lost.
The pound called and my uncle told
the pound, That dog is old. Put it to sleep.
Leather
When I was a kid, baseball all the rage,
I was lucky to have a few baseball gloves,
though one was a catcher’s mitt. Round,
thick, never called a glove, it was different
from the standard infield / outfield glove
worn by Wille Mays, the Say Hey Kid,
when he caught the Vic Wertz long fly
to center — that catch an earthly miracle
to Polo Grounds fans. Distinct from Willie’s
glove and the glove with which Yankees’
shortstop Tony Kubek scooped grounders,
the first base glove of Cleveland’s Power,
first name Vic. That glove, banana-shaped,
folded, that fold needed to catch what was
hit, and mostly thrown, to first. It folds.
In form it was my favorite of the three types.
All three, different as they were and are,
have center pockets that have to be oiled.
Yesterday at the gym a tall brunette said
her husband had pitched for Texas Tech.
I didn’t ask, did he oil his glove’s pocket, but
you can bet he had to. All players do this.
Oil softens the leather, which makes a ball
easier to catch. I couldn’t catch or pitch,
or hit. Still, I liked baseball. At one time
I had a glove with that banana shape, like
Vic Power’s, also a catcher’s mitt. Rawlings
and Spalding baseball gloves, I was lucky
to own more than one, lucky to live where
others, too, owned gloves. I never thought:
cows are killed so we can wear gloves.
I got a glove that looked like Whitey Ford’s.
I squirted oil from a dropper into a pocket,
rubbed the oil in with my fingers. Gradually
a pocket darkened. It felt and looked good.
The dark shiny soft center where a ball
was caught. I don’t own a glove now, but a
leather jacket is close by, only one. I don’t
like that cows are slaughtered. Baseball
days, I was a kid, I didn’t think of it at all.
Black Menace
Sonny Liston picked cotton,
endured welts from his father’s strap,
hitchhiked from Arkansas to St. Louis
to live with his mother,
dropped out of school, stole a cantaloupe
from a vender, sat in a paddy-wagon,
sparred in a ring, hit hard.
A belt with the big gold buckle signified
he was the baddest man on the planet.
Got ticketed by a cop for driving out
the entrance of a MacDonald’s,
fired a pistol at Cassius Clay who ran
out of there so fast at a press conference,
got beaten by Clay in the ring, trained
hard on the heavy bag, the speed bag
jumped rope, jogged, and in the ring
got knocked down by Muhammad Ali,
who retained the title Sonny lost
in their first fight. Had massive biceps
chest and shoulders, wore a sharkskin
suit a pork pie hat a pencil thin mustache.
Leaned down and smiled at a little white
boy who was smiling at him and shook
the boy’s hand. In a park, arrested
for loitering, cops harassed him like
they’d done all his life, even after he was
champion. Bag man for the mob
he stepped behind a counter and grabbed
a bookie hard by the collar in Las Vegas,
where his wife, having been gone two
days, came home and found him dead.
Slumped and swollen. Give him credit.
He laughed and smiled. Those who knew
him saw a man different from his public self.