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The tall gravestone, the one on the far left, that old chap never saw the Grand Canyon, never dipped his toe in the Pacific Ocean, he supported his family every day of adulthood. Just to the right, her, she saw the world, Paris, Tel Aviv, Sydney, Barcelona, Rio, spent her years in a truly jetset fashion, dated but never married, never anyone's mom. Just in front of those, a couple is buried together, though they died two years apart, she didn't finish her last thousand-piece jigsaw, though it did keep her grief away, for a while. Sights seen and unseen, tasks completed or not, ways lived, means earned, goals met or forgotten, friend of the battle-worn or conscientious objector, these matter to no one a hundred years later. If it weren't for my great-great-grandfather, I wouldn't be here, or perhaps, I wouldn't be me, but I never cared a wit about his dreams and his day-to-day scrambles to attain them. A hundred years from now, my own ancestors will go about their own struggles and successes, I can make reparations to leave them a legacy, still, my days here and now will matter to no one. 
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In Dodger blue, my heroes played as villains of the diamond made sweet battles of each nasty pitch, regardless of each player's niche, despite the organ's serenade. The minutes dragged before each trade that brought new blood to our crusade, they always loved to make the switch to Dodger blue. All those extra innings fade as wins continued to parade. The arching curves from baseball's stitch revealed a batter's glaring hitch. For all these years I've cheered and stayed in Dodger blue. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
March 2019
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