Poetry

Accident of Birth

It was the smell of his skin
and the unfiltered Camels in the pocket
of his starched white shirt
as I burrowed into the safest place on earth.

It was the introduction to Fenway and the Garden
and being at Yankee Stadium
for the ’58 Series and his reassurance,
when my brother teased me,
that the Yankees wouldn’t come back
from 3 games to 1 and it didn’t matter when they did.

It was the stories he told me on my bed at night
about the war, his ship and his fear and how
he seemed to tell them only to me.
And how he would check my closet without
making me feel bad for asking.

It was getting up at six for daily mass in Lent;
the awful feeling of the cold and dark but
also a time alone with him,
away from my mother’s voice.

Even with the arguments about the unjust war
that could have killed me

even with his votes for Nixon and Ford
and the pinky ring he started to wear in his fifties

even with his absent Saturday nights
when I had to comfort my weeping mother

even with his complaints about welfare cheats
while he worked under the table for the men
he was supposed to investigate

even though he wouldn’t sell the house
to a black family
because it wouldn’t be fair to the neighbors;

I couldn’t help myself.

James Hannon

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