MR. MACK & MORE QUESTIONS

MR. MACK

Mr. Mack died the other day.  Mack Lewis

born in 1918 near Richmond,

came to Baltimore in ‘24,

grew up on a rowhouse street in Patterson Park,

knew Polish and Irish as neighbors,

played with the Depression poor,

collected bottles, shined shoes, sold newspapers,

boxed for segregated Douglas High, 

joined the army, fought for them too, 

discharged, took a day job with the government,

then, spent nights with his love.

For more than 50 years, 6 nights a week,

climbed those 20 steps at Eager and Broadway,

walked past the sign he posted,

No drugs. No drinking. No smoking. No cursing.

saw thousands come to him to learn,

trained those boys in the art of boxing,

taught respect, how to become a man,

yelled, Stick the jab, counter with the hook,

saw a fighter become world champion, 

another die in the ring, one to jail for murder, 

one named Boogie become a millionaire,

another become a famous artist,

kept thousands off the streets of temptation,

watched his gym crumble, a new one built in his name,

heard the praise of a president and a mayor,

loved as a father figure by some,

respected as a godfather by others,

viewed as an icon in Baltimore,

died November 12, 2010.

Mr. Mack always said,

the gym, This is where I belong.

MOSTLY WE DO NOT KNOW

If she showed the few cards in her hand,

was it because she’s holding out or has a different deck?

If the man makes his bed and lies in it,

shouldn’t the bed have had a say in the matter too?

If, on the plane, you sat in the seat between want and fear

would you rise in weightlessness?

Do apples always bruise when they fall? 

How about if they fall in love?

If Victoria’s Secret couldn’t sell sex,

what would she do?

Is death really just a mute doorman

with a wry grin?

Is want

the hungry ghost we cannot see?

Is God the 1000 piece puzzle

and you the searcher for the missing pieces?

How did God know to make a child walk

just when he was too heavy to carry?

Holy warfare!  Christ and Christians,

did one really beget the other?

Politicians and holy men,

why is it only one can walk on a bed of lies? 

Have pork barrel politicians and Madison Avenue suits always wanted

the masses happy, numb, dumb, and full of Schlitz and sit-coms? 

Can you ever know what leaves you

when death comes?

Is it possible that all we have are questions,

a leaky lift raft on an endless sea?

Did Moses find the only one,

that burning bush with the answers?

Does thinking really hurt?

If your pen did not know fear of speaking truth,

what would it tell to paper?

What do your wounds sing to you?  Are they like the wood thrush that comes at dusk

to sing his evening song over and again?

If life is a dance,

how do we tell our feet to leave our wallflower’d ways?