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"John Edward Pollard" by Biff Rushton

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September 15th, 2026

Texas Poetry Contest #2 – First Place

John Edward Pollard

by Biff Rushton

During the summers 
we’d huddle quarters, 
from every nightstand 
nook and cranny, wherever
our crooked boney fingers 
could fit, tying the ropes 
of Crown Royal bags to our 
handlebars, bound for Tejas 
Food Mart; cutting cross 
Silver Falls, and the back of 
the bus barn, over pale grass 
of the JV field, grinding to a halt 
in the gravel of Pine Tree Center,
      BMX argonauts
      Conquistadors on Diamondbacks


We’d pass his shop, our eyes 
rolling like an 8 ball across velvet,
trying to steal a glance, crooking 
our necks, looking and squinting 
like Actaeon in the forest 
      a Rockstar
      a Real Life Hippie 
uncommon occurrences
and to the eyes, as alien 
in 80’s East Texas as
a Buddhist, 
or a synagogue 
or a muezzin in a Mosque,
even more so after the Baptists
stormed the Bastille,
banished the Devil, 
and excommunicated MTV
from our televisions 
for perpetuity 
 
He didn’t know
that little ball of red
crossing forth his glass 
would one day worship 
the ground he walked, would
consider him, 
      his last bit of family
and would lose his capacity 
to breathe when he heard 
the news, would feel a fracture 
in his left atrium which 
threatened to split him in half
and drew him to his knees 
to pray for the first time 
since his Momma, negotiating 
with God again, striking bargains,
      a little more time
      a little more music
      a little mercy
knowing he’s tough 
as a boot, but still, 
supplications that tilt scales 
in a favorable direction 
are worth repeating,
again and again,
Amen.


He doesn’t know
how much of his blood
courses my veins or how often 
he sits on my shoulder 
offering counsel, keeping time
against my collarbone, whispering 
      push against the beat
      rhythm is everything 
      let em’ hear your heart
      play like it’s your last song 
words of Solomon stitched 
to my existence, saged letters
I’ve held like a compass, 
like holy relics to my chest,
Incantations to carry 
to the grave


He doesn’t know
how many there are like me,
how many walked in searching
for open chords and the pentatonic,
but left holding much more
than musical apprenticeship,
      enriched, enlightened 
      steadfast with direction, 
He was my flesh and bone 
lodestar, cartographer of souls
who lit the way, leadinge
by visceral example 
how to be a good man


Aristotle preached of eudaimonia, 
human flourishing, a life
that means something after 
the body forges itself.
He never read the Ethics, 
but he lived as the teacher 
of Alexander did, not by sermon, 
but by being present, 
day after day,
by signaling joy 
rooted in usefulness
by showing others
how to live with grace 
and grit by equal measure.


He doesn’t know
Confucius from Adam
or that the Master called it junzi,
a man of honor, so quiet he forgets 
he’s holding fire in both hands,
a man who lives nobly when 
no one watches, who teaches 
not by command, but by 
presence. That was John,
never raising his voice
and never needing to.


He was a good man.
Flannery said 
they were hard to come by
but send a message 
across the mainline, 
I found one
on Pine Tree Road
behind the old stadium, 
where Stop & Shop once 
stood; a man masoned with
      generosity, wisdom
      endurance, bravery
the four principles of the Lakota,
virtues that run through him
like blood, that lay
double stitched to his fiber
with a goodness of soul.


So tell O’Connor 
we have one, a good man 
one steady, deserving, and
who’s worth remembering, 
and if my actions never forget,
then you can tell her you 
have found another.

About the Poet
Biff Rushton resides in Leander, Texas, United States.
Read the poet's biography and Wax Poetry and Art publications on Biff Rushton's Artist Page.

This poem is also featured in Comet #9, published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.

Keywords: Aristotle, BMX

Previously published in Texas Poetry Magazine:
Chisos
by Connor Colburn

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