Sysco Quartermain

by Jason Huskey

 

The baddest preacher in the South,
they say he brought it like brimstone,
never needing more than three
pitches to David a man stiff.

Used to keep his mitt up on the altar,
oil it up between hymns, sprinkling
holy water onto the seams for trust,
warding off the Baptists downtown.

One year the Methodists welcomed a ringer
into their congregation, a fast cat
by the name of Roscoe P. Remlinger, who played
intramural with Sysco during their second year of seminary.

The boy took the Methodists all the way
that year, meeting him in the finals. Sysco Quartermain
wasn't afraid of some Judas on the take scoundrel; he
Psalm-23'd nineteen straight like they were a sermon

on Christmas morning. Two outs remained, when Roscoe stepped
inside the dusty confessional for a taste at redemption. Sysco didn't
blink
as he tithed two called strikes onto the boy quick as the word of God.
Going into the next windup, though, he felt the Lord call time.

A trumpet blast of gasps, crackling hell-hot corner heat,
rose as he fell. He still got the cat to swing,
crossing him up with what he called Baal, the deceiver, a wicked slurve
thrown just wide of the collection plate overflowing with Ks.

Some cursed him from the bleachers, Methodists calling forfeit.
They made snide whispers about the Lord disapproving of his allusions,
only to throb mad at his resurrection three years later
at the Rosemont Presbyterian just five miles South in Shiloh.

© 2006 Jason Huskey