Number 42 chooses some hot sun outside Atlanta

Jackie had an afternoon

Plunk in the middle of

A three game weekend.

Away.

Loaned a nice Plymouth

And hit some backroad.

Four down and 55 mph

Made for a nice breeze.

Even though two-ish

In the afternoon  was hottest.

Passing some live oak

With elegant Spanish moss

Ultimately cotton

And more cotton.

Fifty five or sixty pickers.

Cloudless sky.

No one spoke.

Throats parched and stinging.

Heavy but silent breaths.

No one dared approach

The fancy car at the fence

With the unwrinkled nigger.

Until one old woman

Faded aqua skirt

Saw the gesture of

Smacking dust off 

his pant leg.

It was Jackie

Jackie Robinson.

Yeah dassright, number 42.

She often got games

On her radio. 

Friends on the porch

Joined her.

Lemonade, pork rinds.

Dramatic announcer.

And their ambassador- servant.

Robinson.

Bunch came to fence.

Laughing Slapping

Stealing away the time.

Forgetting all disparities.

42 felt something like Home.