Last trip

I can see the overpass.
As my bus approaches that part of town
I become more anxious.
I do not want to go there.

Crowds grow larger and less friendly.
Streets are not as well maintained,
Sidewalks are cracked, trees are few
And kiosks have replaced windowed stores.

Beggars and cripples are everywhere
An angry sun hi-lights the feeling
Of incipient violence.
I must get off the bus.

This not my part of town.
We will come to the last stop
And I will be left, conspicuous,
Among people who do not like my clothes.

Why are these people so shabby?
A smell of unwashed bodies
Pervades the bus as the driver opens the door.
I, the sole passenger, rise and exit.

Hope

Can it work?
They are excited,
Even as they play down the probabilities.
It’s an alternative, something to do.

Tomorrow I fly, and test.
We can explore this option.
Is it ignorance that
Allows my spirit to lighten?

Such good friends.
Serious men, reaching,
Taking my hand and screaming,
“You’ve got to test”.

They will go home,
My problems are not theirs.
So what! They are here now,
And want to help.

Climbing,
Christ this is going to be hard..
And scary.
I don’t know.

Can their ideas make it worse?
You bet.
Time isn’t ours; others will not agree.
I will have to learn.

Do I understand the questions?
Where will I find the talent?
What about the cost?
Am I still tough enough?

Yankees

Let me confess,
Born and raised in Brooklyn
The Bronx was a place of mystery.
Overcrowded with wall to wall 3 story walkups.

I think Columbus would not have visited.
Nope, the borough was creepy.
The stadium was in a lousy location
Even the subway stop, not close to being underground, was nuttin.

But that is far from the worst the Bronx had to offer,
Including the strange way the natives spoke.
That honor belonged to the Yankees,
Those bullshit, white-bread, pinstriped Yankees and Mel Allen.

Mel was their lead play by play guy.
Always the Yankees were in deep do-do.
Poor bubbies, “don’t stand a chance”, he would lament,
Right after Yogi hit a “White Owl Wallop”. Gimme a break!

Brooklyn had Red Barber, a southern gentlemen,
Who called a game right. Taught Vin Scully.
But the “Bronx Bomber’s” what kind of nickname is that?
Sounded like they wore leather flight jackets.

Anuddah thing. We had a band “The Dodger Filharmonic”,
6 piece dixieland.. They were great.
Yankees put gravestones in center field,
What the hell are ya celebrating wit gravestones?

Time and again my beloved Bums
Would lead the National League,
Winning the pennant to confront the Yankees
And proceed to break our hearts

Five times we met ‘em
Five times we tumbled.
It was humiliating.
They owned us, those too-grand-to-take-a crap creeps.

Until 55,
When I changed Dodger luck by betting against them!
Yeah, that’s right. Took me 10 years to figure it out.
Cost me 20 bucks, but we were a Winnah!!

Repeat the Hour

Awaking earlier than early,
Thanks to the intervention of the god
Whose job it is to offer us a brief reprieve,
When two in the morning repeats itself.

Let me assign this gift,
Replay an hour that I should have handled better.
Perhaps that time I did not support you,
Gave you satire when a hug was called for.

What of the call I did not make,
A hesitation when action was needed,
An impulsive thrust
Instead of a reasoned reply.

With the hour retrieved
I could make resolutions
That would surpass the recorded transactions
Of the hour not well spent.

And the rub?
What of the other hours,
All of the time remaining,
Wherein I might achieve or lament?

What of those resolutions?
Of what value beyond a momentary vision,
Or is it all an illusion?
A false belief that arises once a year?

Real Americans

Man wants his country back.
Seems it was stolen by a Black Muslim.
Told me the Muslim wasn’t born here.
Didn’t talk like no black he knew.

Why this Muslim wasn’t born here,
No sir, born in Africa.
Wants to give all our money
To black terrorists.

Man want to raise our taxes
Maybe remove “In God We trust” from our coins.
For sure he is a socialist,
He’ll destroy our capitalist system.

Yes sir, that African is pure evil.
Hates whites, all the whites.
Wants to take away our medical care.
Kill all the old people.

Man likes that black music
They like him in France.
Christ, you know what that means.
Those people hate us.

That Muslim killed all those folks
At Fort Hood.
Comes from the same village as Obama.
We’ve got to take the country back!

Figure he wants to take our guns.
No sir.
Some black drug fiend robs me.
My AK47 set him straight, fair and square.

Reagan had it right.
We’re the people on the shiny hill,
Or something like that.
It’s time for us real Americans to stand up!