THE BEST MAN DOES NOT ALWAYS WIN BECAUSE…

That is the title of my poem just published in Lamp Lit whose editors have just come out with an exquisite Winter 2026 Issue. You will find my poem on pages 14-15, and my biography on pges 55-56 of the magazine, which you can download

THE BEST MAN DOES NOT ALWAYS WIN BECAUSE

behind the line of tall man pines breaking wind

we played cornhole and you got ahead fast

your body rocking like the rolling flutes on a seeder,

picking up one seed after another and carrying each 

to its certain drop point.

Your red bean bags hit the spot. My blue ones sprouted 

in the grass like thistle weed here and there. The soybeans 

in the field were our fans in the stands, we thought, blazing 

in the setting sun, but the color of their team was yellow.

Maybe we were at the wrong game? Weeks ago, sixty migrant 

machete-wielding field hands marched through the rows 

swinging and singing and laughing to beat the band and disappeared 

into the shadows. What did it matter? The field itself would soon disappear

to brown dust.

The beans, meant to make tofu, would carry a scar.

It’s called the hilum, you explained, holding a seed

between your fingers. This is where they once were attached 

to the pod. You explained to me the difference between beans for food 

and beans for feed.

You told me how you liked to wade into the field for hours 

before sundown and pull the horseweed and foxtail and be alone 

like the champion who after he has changed in the locker room

goes to stand in the middle of an empty stadium

and bow his head.

You told me you were getting old and were ready to retire. 

You said it was because you needed routines and there were no 

routines in farming. You showed me how to change my stance 

and rock forward on my other foot as I let the bean bag fly. 

You showed me how to beat you.