R.S. Bach

For some reason he always called me Mr. B,
But I always called him Steve,
He always seemed mildly amused,
At whatever it was I had to say,
Neither of us ever delved too deeply,
Just a little chat then went on our way.
I found myself thinking about him just the other day,
Wondering how the chemo was going,
How his battle with cancer was panning out,
Felt a tinge of sadness out of the blue,
Surprised myself but kept on going as I do,
Not quite sure why I reacted as I did.
The office seems so quiet without him,
On medical leave as he fought his fight,
Filling the air with bellows of laughter,
Coming in early and staying late at night,
He was childless so this place was his baby,
The unofficial father to this ragtag crew.
I’d usually see him on the back stoop,
Stealing drags off his Marlboro reds,
As he stared beyond the parking lot,
Over the trees and on toward Cedar Street,
Dreaming of some faraway golf course,
Thoughts lost like so many golf balls in the tall weeds.
He was always pretty easy to reach after hours,
Whenever the computer system decided to take a dive,
Either at home but more likely on his cell,
He’d tell me what to do or who to call,
Never ever seemed bothered that I could tell,
And more than once he was out on some course.
For awhile he would spend lunch at the driving range,
Hitting buckets of balls while wearing a shirt and tie,
Trying to slay whatever demons one stroke at a time,
He’d laugh when I told him my struggles with the links,
Playing double-bogey golf but a duffer just the same,
Even though we both knew that I had no game.
So on the Sunday afternoon when the supervisors came in,
Milling about in the parking lot I should have known,
Something was up and something was wrong,
Then they told me that he had passed and I welled up,
And it still doesn’t quite seem possible at all,
The news hit all of us like a punch to the gut.
I don’t really have much else to say,
I hope he got to watch Ohio State play the other day,
Sticking it to the Wildcats on a beautiful Saturday afternoon,
By now he’s probably in the clubhouse on the 19th hole,
In that heavenly golf course where our ancestors go,
Filling the air with whoops of laughter,
Reminiscing about life down here in the hereafter.