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!