Digging through some old school work buried beneath my feet at the table that I’m currently sitting at, I found some old work. I don’t remember much about these poems, although I presume I created them in 10th or 11th grade. I find my teacher’s comment on the last poem, One Final Catch, kind of funny. She commented on my paper: This is quite good up to here [the end], but what happened? It’s up for interpretation, certainly. I bullshitted it so it’s not like I even remember what originally happened in the end.
The Blacksmith is a capable apprentice hammering his way to expertise.
Ding, ding, he feels the beating, striking, pounding.
His job is now complete.
I cried for the poorest man’s dollar bill.
Picture a deprived man sitting next to a run down window sill.
When I was a young boy, Mama said:
I, a fool, wish I could follow her command,
But here I sit with absolutely nothing in my hand.
I am exceptionally smart, although my attitude always changes.
It’s like a friend: you can always depend on it.
One Final Catch
His vigorous work schedule meant me seeing him only once a week.
I did not get frustrated.
I knew he would come home and play catch with me.
I never wondered what my uncle did for work.
Our relationship was father-son like; not that it matters now.
I packed my sack with a glove and a ball.
I knew what we were doing.
“All right, sport, show me what you’ve got,”
My uncle’s voice was like none other.
He always gave me that extra wink and smile.
Now I know why.
That Saturday in March, Uncle didn’t say his usual:
“See you next week, sport.”
Instead he said “goodbye.”