He didn’t say much.
Not the kind of man
who softened a moment
with a smile.
Just said, Get in,
and we drove.
We stopped first
to leave flowers
for my aunt—
his great love—
gone too early,
the one who left him
three kids
and no instructions.
Then silence again.
A mile.
Another.
The civic center was loud enough
to shake the concrete.
Red, white, noise.
Georgia in heat.
Lex Luger
against Crush—
a stretcher match,
blood bright enough
to look ceremonial.
My uncle bought me a shirt.
Nodded.
Nothing said.
Popcorn.
Sweet tea.
A sody pop.
He slept through suplexes,
through the roar,
through the violence we paid to watch.
Woke only at the end
when the flag came out,
when Luger stood tall—
someone the South stood for
without saying why.
People stood.
Cheered.
Believed.
I felt like I’d won something
just by being there,
my chest loud with it.
Beside me
a quiet man
who had carried grief,
and children,
and a life that kept going anyway.
Between us
a gap
held together
the way silence does.
Returning to defend his title, hailing from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…
Standing 6’3”, 300 pounds of twisted steel and poetic appeal…
The same force who has already made over 100 journals and reviews tap out—and isn’t finished yet…
THE LAST BARD—
JOSHUA WALKER!
One Fall Review 