I'll just let you decide that for yourself. |
Poppa Jack was young When the world Was still black-and-white. A talented southpaw scouted For the Major Leagues, Striking out man after man. An equally talented soldier who played For the Army during WWII, Shooting at Nazis And never hitting even one. His war was on the battlefield Of contradictions; An old dog with new tricks, He once shot a three-pointer In front of some high-schoolers When he was seventy-years-old. There were casualties, though. He wished he had been a better father And a less bitter son; And he deeply regretted Socking his oldest grandchild For dating a black girl, When he himself had once married A German Jew. He reconciled this battle With his nature, though, By cheering his grandchildren on Every time we came up to the plate Or free-throw line, Watching us with one good eye Because the other one was blinded By a line drive. During cold winter nights or hot summer days, He would play board games with us, Teaching patience With laughter All afternoon. And regardless of how young we were Or how old we got, He would still rouse us In the morning From our dreamless slumbers, Happily barking, “Up and at ‘em!” Until we were seated, Bleary-eyed At the breakfast table, Where he would drop Banana halves like bombs In our sugar-coated cereal, Then comb our hair Straight as pins for school. Poppa Jack Always gave us advice From his point of view, And told us stories That were always true. He was a Depression Era refugee, Stingy as a stone, But gave his oldest grandson His inheritance Before he died As a wedding gift He didn’t live to see. We, your grandchildren, Miss you, Poppa Jack. Every beat of your flawed And perfect heart. And your great grandchildren Who never knew you Will miss you Someday too. Who he was is our memory of him. http://www.lulu.com/content/1192158 |