POPPA JACK

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.





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