Sadly, you were before me
Redefining boundaries with your
Poetry. Harsh, whistling, cannonical stuff
That stay hit when brushed by the
Meat of your blade.
In a film they say that a revolutionary
You’d have become had you not
Measured the willow in your hand.
Marching out, the beast trapped in you,
Making noise in the swagger; the gum-defining chew.
It is pain — in those faces; as tired limbs run,
Following pistol shots timed through
Close set men. In an arc, all around, through the
Green padded ground and over and over
And along the field. And again.
On god’s channel, youtube,
See them whipped off your toes
And as Chappel’s chest hairs brittle
Until it’s gone noone’d know. You touch
Your cap, you touch the gloves of Lawrence Rowe.
More than one would know
As we listen to the ease of each
Calypso, that make crystals of your game:
Grim arrogance, stampede of your heartless blade
Shaping hearts and laughter twenty years after.