Soundbites (For Grammy)

Soundbites
By DJ Stipe

My conscience is not my own.
It’s a switchboard of soundbites,
collected throughout the years
for better or…. worse.


It serves up the crooked cowboy hat,
straw chewing, intelligent
generosity of my wife’s Uncle.
This almost always happens
when I’m up to no good.


The condescending inflection
of my step-father
points out the single blade of grass
that escapes the lawn mower
while I daydream of life without perfection.


When I watch baseball,
it’s Grammy’s voice that cheers.
She tries to make me keep score.
I was never a Braves fan
until I heard the rattle of death
in the bottom of the 9th.


I’m trying to train my conscience to be my own.
I’ve heard it can be done
with years of patience
and a little trickery.

I make myself repeat (in my own voice)
the soundbites of the Great Cowboy.
There’s nothing he’s ever said
that would leave me worse
for having repeated.


I make sure to skip a patch of lawn,
precisely six inches by six inches,
to remind myself
I am NOT my step-dad.


I still cheer for baseball
even though, for me, it’s magic is lost without…
chalk on my hands;
knees stained by perfectly cut grass;
Big League Chew spit
dripping down my chin;
Or the scorecards of excited Grandmothers.


Here batter, batter.