repavements

They looked down at the wriggling

still-wet thing,

all what’s-this eyes,

born ass-first, and still coming,

and said,

Call him Travis,

but only around judges, and government types.

Boys leaving the high school up the road

passed by my house before heading downhill

(the one where my basketball lost me

and I, bounding, didn’t care).

At the time, I saw in them the future.

My face was in theirs’, not yet my father’s,

or my mom’s brother’s (Byrum Cade)

or father’s (Tom Cade)

or any of the hiding men who I follow. They were beyond (still are).

The boys with backpacks — there I could reach,

if only I could catch my ball.

Find me a face of yours that wasn’t a phase.

I’ll put the back of my hand

to its forehead

like I have a clue.

The man with my face-to-be, that I couldn’t

yet see, still watches mine, calls me

“TC Jester”

and smiles, without a hint of irony.

I see the joke is on me,

and most mornings

I want it to end

and for you to laugh

and for “Cade” to mean

one, simple thing.