October, 2008

Poetry

Passing The Baton

Sprout Illustration

It was my very first convention,
And a man with white hair came to visit.
He asked if I were the son of…
The grandson of…
The great-grandson of…
And when I replied, yes,
He said:

“I knew them all a long time ago.”

In the Depression, he told me, my great-grandfather had given him Credit
When nobody else would. And that had made all the difference.

I never saw the white hair again.
Always looked, convention after convention,
Thinking I caught a glimpse every now and then.
But he was gone.

The words, though, stay with me,
Like a baton passed.
From a great-grandfather I never knew.

- Jim Prevor