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At one time Bart was six foot four inches and wanted by the ladies.
He played lacrosse at Hobart back in the Sixties.
He had long hair and a great sense of humor.
Then Bart developed MS and that was that … all except for the sense
Of humor … at least that's what we all supposed kept him going.
Or maybe it was his quarter ounce of pot a day habit.
Or maybe his wife really loved him and they still satisfied each other.
Don't know. Haven't seen Bart in 30 years.
So what happens when memories of the past kick in?
Is it like drowning mentally when a torrent of images
Floods ones mind?
Is this the tsunami that envelopes us on the inside
In stead of the outwardly fashionable legacy granted to but a few?
I picture Bart in a nursing home, wheeling his wheel chair
After the nurses for to pinch some butts, but perhaps he is still
Playing lacrosse and wielding his midfielder's stick
So long and, at that time, still made of animal gut
Stitched through a length of maple or ash, a long stick,
For midfielders need long ones to poke at balls
When the attackmen speed into their turf.
Today players use plastic & fiberglass.
But the defense is still a good place to play.
Where one can be a hero without risking too much.
Like most of our jobs in the modern times.
Data input, numbers on a spreadsheet.
Accounts in the Caymans like all good Christians.
People getting rich without producing a product worth eating
Or passing on to the grandkids.
A product that only exists in the human imagination.
Here kitty kitty, I have some new accounts for you.
And then we wonder why the kitty pees in our slippers.
When the Indians played lacrosse it was meant as a substitute for war.
It was still pretty bloody, but few usually died.
The field could be miles and miles through forests and trees
And across rivers and lakes, now that was a man's game.
Alas, there are no men left anymore. Goodbye Bart.
I hope your legacy is more that a memory of games & girls.
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