Under the magnolia tree in my front yard -
He was lying on his back
resting his head on his rucksack.
He said he had just come from the Coast,
That he was too old to still be on the road,
But it beat living a lifetime in Lowell.
He said he was glad it was finally spring -
That the past winter had been
particularly hard on his old bones.
He said he wanted to go home,
But the only home he knew was the road,
That stretched between the horizons -
And then the wind whispered softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
I knew he loved baseball,
So we talked baseball for a while.
And when he rattled off a list of immortal names -
Ruth, Fox, Cobb, Young -
It brought sparkle back into his eyes
And made him smile.
He was amazed at how much the game had changed -
At how much money the modern day players were paid.
He was visibly disturbed about how steroids
Had tarnished the sacred home run
How it was no longer a game played by men
With the souls of innocent children
Sadly, I agreed things would never be the same -
And then I suggested a good greasy spoon -
Where we could grab some bacon and a couple of fried -
Another time, he sighed – I'm due back to the road.
And as I watched him go, I called out:
Jack, wait, you forgot your rucksack...
Keep it - he said – I don’t need it anymore.
And as I stood alone under the magnolia tree -
I heard the wind whisper softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
Like someone had closed a door
To some other part of the universe.
Posts
