Poem by Joe Bisicchia
I know Isaiah Zeker,1909-1921.
Quick math. Kid was 12 when he gained his stone.
He's been buried for, what, let me think,
my math ain't great, a lot of years,
or about as long as I could think.
Acourse, he and I, we never did meet. Fishly, I mean.
Pass him as I walk down the street. He ain't alone.
There's a Floyd Smith,1866-1906, a baby named Joan.
But as for Isaiah, we share hellos as I walk to school.
Nothing spooky at all, in fact, really quite actually cool.
Gives me advice. Once we even talked Yankees baseball.
See, after many a day looking at his name and numbers,
I could imagine his approach to the plate.
Figured he was maybe kid who could hit ball a mile.
So, I asked if he did. Said he could hit it mile and a half.
So, I figured maybe he raced the trains to the station
because he had to be so very fast. Said he did.
And more I got to know, seemed like regular kid.
Had long wavy hair and was friend with an Indian.
Had pet husky named Moe and sister in the circus.
Peed in nearby lake, now a school as things change.
All of this was discussed, although not all in total focus.
Pals just talk and sometimes get lost in all hocus pocus.
I call him Zeke. Widda name like Zeker, made sense.
Unless he had big brother named Zeke. If so, then maybe
he was Little Zeke unless he had two brothers and then
maybe he was just Izzy. Unless his dad was Izzy. If so, then
maybe he was Little Izzy. For lack of exact knowledge and
then because of routine like the pathway of a river,
his name was selected and carved into the granite
of our shared minds.
12 year old Zeke is wise old somebody who from his view,
and mine, probably knows so much more about life than I do
even though I'm at same age too.
He tells me he tosses around lightning bolts in thunderstorms.
That one was quite surprising one. You don't say so.
So, out of respect, I always say hello. Not just pleasantry.
Sometimes in life, it just makes sense being friendly.
Lots in others to know beyond a tombstone.
Published by Poets Collective,2015
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