Winter 2016 — THE POTOMAC



Three Poems

Robert Cooperman

Jess Willard, "The Great White Hope," in His Second Life

"The Potawatomie Giant" was the white prizefighter
Jim Crow was pining for, as if the girl next door:
to finally put an end to usurper Jack Johnson in 1915,
in the 26th round of their Havana title bout,
white America cheering, that of course any one
of them could've done the same to a mere Negro.

Willard's next life, a hospice attendant, lifting patients
easily as holding a birthday balloon; stroking the dying's
frightened hands, listening to their memories, regrets,
ravings; voices growing soft as snuffed candle smoke.
He cooed to them, as if coaxing songbirds into melody,
a way with the most depressed, so they'd smile
when he'd fluff them up, to watch TV or sunsets crimson
as the rose bouquets they gave the girls of their dreams,
or accepted from the boys who set their hearts singing.

And when a patient died, he mourned, even for the ones
bigger pains in the ass than an axe striking heartwood:
one less man or woman for the world to love,
until their beds were filled again, as he knew he'd take
his place in one, someday, to wait, with the help,
he hoped, of an attendant as kind as he'd been.


Vince Lombardi in His Next Life

With his knife–wielding Ernest Borgnine smile
right out of From Here to Eternity, and his eyes'
mad warning, like my algebra teacher, who'd hiss,
"Brother Cooperman, take a friendly suggestion,"
so I'd crap my pants and bobble, "Yes, Sir,"
no one was tougher than Coach Vince Lombardi,
his Packers executing his famed halfback sweep
like Roman galley slaves more terrified
of their commander than of any pirate triremes.
After they beat the Chiefs in the first Super Bowl
he had the honesty to tell an interviewer,

"What do you want me to say? They're as good
as our best teams? They're not," believing only
in imposing his will and in winning, except
when it came to facing up to the cancer
he was too scared to get treated, so it finished him.

The next time around, I see him as a priest,
ordering penances and prayers for the good
of parishioners' souls. But when the claret
made the rounds at the rectory table, he'd place a hand—
gnarled and hard as a carpenter's–over his glass,
and glare at fellow priests: "Christ turned water
into wine, but didn't abide drunkards."

Father Vince made sure widows, orphans, and pensioners
were well provided for, that children were dressed,
for the weather, that no father beat his wife and kids
in a drunken–grizzly bear rage, and that no beggar
was ever turned away hungry, with only a lecture.
When he died, the whole congregation wept,
even the priests who preferred wine to his wicked smile.


Pee Wee Reese in His Second Life

One of the great non–sports sports stories:
Pee Wee Reese wrapping a warm,
welcoming arm around rookie
Jackie Robinson, to silently condemn
Reds' fans hurling racial epithets
like stones at an honor killing.

Except there's some debate
whether the incident took place in 1947,
in the drama of Robinson's rookie year;
or in 1948. And if it never happened?
Both men were still lifelong friends.

In his second turn on the karmic wheel,
Pee Wee would be a photographer
with a knack for shooting history,
visual confirmation in case some idiot
disputes the record, like Republicans
who refuse to believe President Obama
was born in the United States.

Pee Wee would snap the newborn,
his wristband typed, "Barack Hussein Obama,"
end of discussion; he'd capture on film
the perpetrators of the Birmingham
church bombing, when four little girls
were robbed of their lovely lives
by racist murderers, Pee Wee's
camera an all-seeing eye of justice,

though he'd curse himself forever
for not being quick enough to stop
the killing or rescue those four angels.

  
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