THOMAS M. MCDADE - POEMS

Thomas M. McDade is a 73-year-old resident of Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.
He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.
McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, 
Virginia Beach, VA and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF 1091)

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​The Whistle Whack

The professor cut 
Farrell’s Studs Lonigan 
character no slack,
pled him guilty to a string 
of faults—couldn’t
even whistle for one!
Think of it—branded
him a ne'er-do-well.
I easily sympathized
with the doomed 
housepainter. 
I bit a lip and recalled
my father driving us
to visit my grandmother.
The odor from his cheap cigar
mixed nicely with the dusty
back seat upholstery in
our beat up Dodge Coronet.
When I started whistling 
“The Davy Crockett Theme” 
my mother ordered me
to quit citing my shrill
off-key delivery.
All of this often returns
on hearing the simplest  
of tunes flowing easily
off any lucky lips
as cotton candy or manure
might bookmark another     
kid’s farm or circus trip.
Oh, my loser lit link did
cease embracing me
if only for a month or two.
No need to whistle past that
menacing classroom memory
after Carol Cable hired me
to drive third shift forklift.
The Benzedrine I used
to stay awake had
an added benefit:
my skewered rock and folk
riffs often slipped out 
and damned if they didn’t’
sound just fine.
 

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Lettermen
​

Well I recall Father Richard
M. Brackett, S. J.
I’m able to picture him
without a blur
standing at his desk
paunchy and red of cheek
waving a grey-jacketed 
Man and Sin tome 
that served as text as well 
as title for his Religious
Study course.
All his quizzes and exams
were essay. He stressed
volume above all else.
So, with a bit of rote
a student could take the bit,
run and improvise easily
especially if the Baltimore
Catechism had been etched
early on, filling two,
three or more blue books
and the consensus was that
number determined the grade--
himself never opening even one.
Don’t know if anyone ever probed,
cranked out pages full of jibber-jabber?
An easy-going man except 
the day J. Edgar Hoover died
when he slammed Man and Sin
down on the desk he preached 
praise all over that snoopy 
lawman’s life, deeds and character
as fiercely as if were pubic enemies 
disputing the G-Man’s reputation.
No one took the bait.
The good priest was a saint 
as long as he continued to live
up to sweet student bestowed
initials: Father A. B. Brackett.

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Boston at Atlanta, 2004 ​

Fourth of July at Turner Field two men
sitting three rows down are rowdy from 
the start, no doubt drinking all the day.

Ushers often issue warnings but the
barrages of insults continue, player
names brutally slurred. Sadly, they are

Boston fans yet no slack for the Beantown
nine, even Damon’s easy five letters
are rendered profane, garbled and spitty.

So solidly into their silly exhibition 
they fail to note the bold taunts of two
teens yelling that the Red Sox are cursed

and snake-bit. Of course for harsh proof 
they cite Buckner and Dent and at one 
point shout in unison that “Nomar sucks.”

At least they can annunciate! When he hits 
a home run, a portly man swings around, asks
“Who sucks, now,” briefly silencing them.

The ushers at last escort the drunks off
in the bottom of the eighth. Well, away
from their seats that is. Distant arguments,

denials and threats waft spitefully back.
I guess failure to boot them earlier speaks
of Southern hospitality on that prophetic  

night featuring brilliant fireworks fit for 
a thousand or more holidays and Schilling’s
crucial ALCS win. As far as payback,

the Sox hating teens got to stuff the Braves routine
flop along with the Bambino hex  into one bloody 
sock. The tipsy duo no doubt viewed the Series 

on a fuzzy dive bar TV screen: both fools
sloshed and stupidly rooting for St. Loomis.

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