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The readjustment was the hardest part
Not leaving the war zone
Or coming home back to his country
And to his wife and family and friends
But actually readjusting to the fact
That fact that he had no legs
He left them back in Iraq
Not as a war victim or injury
To a vehicle accident instead
His Hummer left the road and rolled
He was lucky to escape with his live
The medics took him to the hospital
It was touch and go but he made it
The army will pay for his recovery
And give him a pension
Plus a pair of tin legs
And keep him on the books
An advisory role for future wars
He did ok from his accident
But readjusting is still hard
This is his new normal...

Back in the day before the game quit us,
We’d balled down at the rec center with an old guy
Who went by the name of Terry Easy.
He was there every afternoon, every night
(As far as we knew, he’d been there forever,
The joke being Hell, man, Easy was there
Three minutes after they got the floor down.)
Big old dude, but you could tell from the way he moved,
Even the way he walked, that he had game at one time,
Though he’d gotten to the wrong side of the transition
From solid to just plain fat
(We’d woof at him Easy, you get any more flab on your *******
And we’re gonna have to go from shirts-and-skins
To bras-and-blouses, for chrissakes.)
And he played with coke-bottle glasses so thick
You figured he couldn’t hit the backboard from outside three feet.
Still, if you didn’t pick the man up a few steps across half-court,
He’d bury you with set shots --‘course, if you played him too tight
He’d just back-door your *** for layups all night
(As far as playing D went, Easy was pretty easy pickings,
Though he’d try to make up for a lack of foot speed
With old man tricks--locking his knee behind yours
To push you off the blocks, a quick grab of the shorts
As you cut through the lane, stuff that starts fights,
Though taking a shot at Easy was just something you didn’t do
Something unspoken that you just knew was out of bounds.)
Between games, Easy would tell stories about his playground days:
He’d played on all the courts with all the legends,
16th and Susquehanna with Lewis Lloyd and Sad-Eyes Watson,
48th and Brown with The Pearl,
Ridgeway Playground with Wilt and Hal Greer.
One day Easy was telling a story about how Greer,
Playing out the string with a Sixers team
That won nine **** games all season,
Was playing against Wilt one night when the Lakers were in town.
Hal went down the lane, and Wilt was right there,
Getting ready to swat the pill…hell, eight, nine rows up,
Maybe halfway to Doylestown, but at the last moment
He pulled his hand back, and let the ball tap, tap, tap on the rim
Before it dropped through for two
(For old times’ sake, Wilt said later.)
Hal didn’t see it that way, giving Wilt a shove and glaring at him
All the way back down court, and after the game
He stormed into the Laker locker room,
Screaming Where the **** is Wilt? I’m gonna beat his ***!
And, catching sight of the big man, hollered ever louder
You play it straight with me, *******, you hear me?
You never disrespect my *** on the court again! Never!
All the time two or three guys holding Hal back
(And understand, Wilt was the biggest, baddest man in the game;
Hell, one time he picked up Mel Daniels,
Six-feet-nine of evil and bad temper, like a Raggedy Andy)
And the big man never said a word, ‘cause he knew was wrong,
So Terry told the story, anyway,
And Easy should have stopped right there,
‘Cause the story was over, but old men get foolish, get all soppy,
So he says Hal was right, understand-;
You just can’t do that to a man.
Old player like Greer, maybe all he’s got left is his pride,
Like some old lion who can’t hunt no more, but he’s earned that.
Gotta let a lion have his pride, and after he finished
All the young ‘uns just hooted at him
Man, Easy, you do go on, and for months afterward
Every time the dude covering him turned his head
And gave Easy an easy bucket, everyone on the court
Would just laugh, and yell That’s good huntin’, man.
Roar, lion, roar.

Harmonica Player                                                        

Dad was a harmonica player.
He always played those same several songs,
but he played them well.

Everyone recognized and sang along with
Camptown Racetrack, Oh Susannah
and Red River Valley.

On his visit to Germany
while I was in the Army
Dad played, Ach Du Lieber Augustin
and Beer Barrel Polka much
to everyone’s enjoyment over there.

He could also do a good imitation
of that train chugging along the tracks
down by the plywood factory
in Ridgeway Virginia,
steam whistle and all.

Dad was a harmonica player.
          
He always had a harmonica
in one of the kitchen drawers
or on our mantle above the fireplace,
sticky from a child’s fingers
and clogged with ******* crumbs.
With six children he went through
quite a few harmonicas.

Out of us kids, I was the only one
to learn to play anything,
just 3 or 4 songs, but that,
none the less, means

I am a harmonica player.
          
That one Christmas Dad gave
each of his four grandsons
a Hohner “Old Standby” harmonica
with beginner instruction and method book.

I guess none of the other grandsons
had done much with their instrument,
because when Dad asked my son, Jason
if he could play the harmonica he’d sent,
it was something like,
“Well, I guess you never learned to play yours either.”
          


Jason came out of his room a little later,
handed Dad the songbook and asked,
“Which would you like to hear?”
He picked You Are My Sunshine
and Jason played it note for note
from the music written on the page.
          
Dad was both surprised and thrilled,
but most of all amazed.
Jason not only could play his harmonica,
but also read music,
something neither he nor I could ever do.

He talked about this for many years to come.
That, of course, means

Jason is a harmonica player, too.

I would forget hurting
for too many miles
If you give me
some happy smiles,
I will find the diamond out
from the river
If you make me bolder!

I will take away my pain
If you gimme some love again.

I'd walk through the ridgeway
along with you
If you drive me
in a good way,
I want to fly high
If you give me your sky.

I will bring the monsoon rain
If you gimme some love again.

neither do I have a rosebay to touch
nor a sky to love
only I have is a street
that I pass through the revery

my heart is like a ridgeway
that I fold myself its end
a hanky, my lover, lace is north wind
from which my tears pour nacres


Koray Feyiz
(Translated from Turkish by Koray Feyiz)

School’s out! – We both passed the term.
A month and a half of blissful idleness awaits –
Hope I never catch ringworm.
Why haven’t I as yet tasted any dates?

“I haven’t taken you guys to Sani Pass,” the Rock realised.
“It’s where I grew up. You’ll love it.”
Now there was a holiday plan, devised
To ice over our indentured past now closed with prayer.

Shabby Underberg Inn was our first hinterland halfway house,
And, with the morn’s dawn, we scuttled way.
Next was Alpine Heath, linen crisp and white as a mouse,
Indeed a far more luxurious stay.

Mountains clothed in lily-white shawls
Abound our abode as the day’s first view.
Too many routine breakfasts, conformers and Texan drawls –
Time to see what lies beyond these confined lawns.

“This is the bridge your grandfather built,” the Rock replied.
I could feel the limp structure yearning the tender touch of his artisan hand.
Next, we ascended the snow and heath of a neighbouring field
To look at the remnants of where the family house once did stand.

“Abandon all hope ye that enter here,”
Old Ridgeway’s sign threateningly testified.
Hey, Ridgeway – the stonemason’s grandson you rule not with fear.
Tell me, what was your last thought as you died?