“So what makes you the best of all potential employees?
What makes you stand out from the crowd?”
He need not speak his mocking of me out loud
As he leans back to rest in smirking self-ease.

But who can blame him, in all honesty?
Who could respect my bumbling and fumbling?
Every answer eluded me, with each question came crumbling
Down any confidence I had of interviewing successfully.

I begin in a voice almost inaudible:
“Kind sir, though my interview skills are hardly laudable,
When I'm in my element, I'm pretty nice and friendly...”
He interrupts, “Speak louder, son, we're in a factory!”

My family said list what qualifies me
When asked such questions, list them: 1, 2, 3...
So I take a deep breath, lean forward in my chair
And look straight in his eyes through my emo-cut hair.

“Good sir, I'm dedicated, in early, out late..
Um....yeah, I mean, I'll work no matter my state.
I'm always working for something; I think I'm pretty motivated...
And people tell me I'm smart, like, I'm educated,
Uhm, yeah, all that, and also, I'm organized,
Like I'm really pretty OCD, I line my pencils up by size...”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I've heard this all before,”
He says as before I can think of something after number 4.
He looks at me with his hand ready to dismiss,
But suddenly I discover I've a heart to resist,
And more than resist, a heart to defend,
My person from this man who isn't worth my rear end.

“Before I leave, good sir,
I pray you allow,
One more list of words,
This one about the crowd.”

He rolls his eyes, but says, “Go on.”
And so I begin as though nothing's wrong:

“Sir, I think you might be right,
The crowd is indeed more dedicated than I:
They pursue whatever they see in sight
And they'll stop an nothing, they'll leave you to fry.
I can tell you also they cling more to their motives that I to mine,
But theirs are rooted in the love of money, *** and wine.
My motives, I fear to tell, are more easily given up
Once I recognize my errors and find bitter taste in my cup.
Moreover, I am less educated than the crowd
In matters concerning **** and prison life and crack;
I wonder at the courage my naivete to speak aloud
Or admit to you the great amount of knowledge I lack.
Finally, I'm less organized, to a great degree,
The crowd is much more cunning than me
And they plan out things so much better than I,
What ever will I do if things go awry?”

“Good sir, if this makes me less in your eyes,
Then the job you offer I'd likely despise.
So give me a call, take me or leave me,
But never, never, never dismiss me.”

She dribbles up and down the driveway
A red handball that bounces up
With the same vivacity as her heart.
“Come on, Grandpa!” she will say,
When she realizes I'm smiling over my coffee cup,
And I'll get up to join her in my soul's old art.

With a rather new stiffness I'll throw toward the net,
And my mind goes to what was and what's not yet:
From dunking with friends in schoolyard courts
To each banana bread breakfast and protein shake snack,
To the luxuries of life and vacation resorts
Of stardom and fame before the injury of my back...
But she will be the most famous star,
I'll buy her a basketball for Christmas this year.
She'll pass me up, be better by far,
And she'll see something glorious when she looks in the mirror...

The ball hits the roof, seems I aimed too high
And I wonder, again, that cursed question: why?
I put my arms down and let out a sigh
As she chases after the ball.

I turn to sit back down, get back to my chair
When she runs up and pulls the back of my hair,
She pouts a little, saying, “No, that's not fair!”
It begins to dawn, I haven't lived since that fall...

The fall that broke my back,
The fall that broke it all,
The fall that took me from riches to lack,
The fall that keeps me from standing tall...

“Shoot it, Grandpa!” she calls to me
And what can I really do but comply,
I shoot and hit the roof, missing very clearly,
But she breaks into applause, and I begin to cry:

For she is my biggest fan,
Though the smallest in stature of them all,
And her applause is all I need
To look again in the mirror, first time since the fall.
She shows me I am worthy
Of affection, I am my granddaughter's glory.

It might be the passersby that amuse me:
The brightly dressed young woman whose ease
And deeply warm smile suggest convincingly
She is a new bride, her heart dancing like the breeze;
Or her companion, whose strength beams
Through his eyes and brightens his gaze,
His love, like the sun's light streams
Over his young wife, whose laughter seems his praise;
Or the gaggle of adolesents,
From whose conversation I catch words
Like “amped” and “dude,” most of which to me make no sense,
Whose clothes seem much worn than what their parents can afford;
Or it might be the happy child
Giggling in her mother's arms,
Whose fun consists of simply flailing all wild
And watching the smiles of those the fun disarms.

Or it might be that I am the youngest of them all,
Cane on the bench beside me,
Taking in the world, anew, fresh, though this be my 76th fall.
If this park bench view means anything, very clearly:
Life is a smiling thing.