<\/a>This is a poem about my grandfather, George Martin. He was a Merchant Marine during WWII.<\/p>\n

Another Lucky Break<\/strong><\/p>\n

Before we knew, he was the Vaseline Kid
\nA southpaw, a featherweight, in the Atlantic Fleet
\nBefore that, he sold newspapers on the corner<\/p>\n

Slouched in his chair, his teeth in a shot glass
\nHe greeted us after school: Put up ya dukes
\nHe gave us Cokes and Hershey\u2019s Kisses<\/p>\n

Not much to look at, a nose a Gibraltar of pulp
\nLoose fitting skin covered with blurry tattoos
\nDespite his fragility, he offered safe-passage<\/p>\n

Evenings after Cronkite, he fired up his Zippo
\nTorching the end of a tiparillos, with supper he\u2019d
\nTell us a tanker burned forever even as she sank<\/p>\n

He was ready to spin yarns about Esso fuelers
\nHe pointed to dusty shores on the Oriental rug
\nAnd in a trance hollered torpedo starboard side<\/p>\n

Striking between No. 4 tank and the pump room
\nA blessing as ballast put them on an even keel
\nSomething kept those souls within the convoy<\/p>\n

He started again: Don\u2019t mess up a lucky break\u2026
\nWith a giant gash amidships, S.B. Hunt listed as
\nA U-Boat vanished in the deep, its future grave<\/p>\n

We fidgeted on the divan selfishly wanting more
\nBut a hacking cough hijacked his body and we waited
\nWe stared into his dark sockets finding gentle eyes<\/p>\n

His daughters a closer foe quickly ended our liberty
\nUntil ordered to leave we sat with our ancient mariner
\nNever realizing how many lucky breaks he gave us<\/p>\n

<\/a>Steve Herring\u2019s poetry has appeared in Poetry Quarterly and the Aurorean. Steve earned his Master of Arts degree at Northeastern University and taught literature at the United States Military Academy. He\u2019s a New England transplant now living in Arlington, Va. \u00a0He enjoys hiking, jazz,\u00a0and classic films. Steve can be reached by email at\u00a0herringsteve@hotmail.com<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

The post Poem: Another Lucky Break<\/a> appeared first on Giver on the River<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This is a poem about my grandfather, George Martin. He was a Merchant Marine during WWII … Before we knew, he was the Vaseline Kid A southpaw, a featherweight, in the Atlantic Fleet Before that, he sold newspapers on the corner Slouched in his chair, his teeth in a shot glass <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":58,"featured_media":7685,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[420,419],"class_list":["post-7657","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-arts-entertainment","tag-poem","tag-poetry"],"yoast_head":"\n