at a baseball game
in which a Texas
league single breaks up
the no-hitter in the ninth
on a two-out, two-
O pitch before
the paid attendance
of 43,000 whistling
manically when you kick
your stockinged leg
high as a Rockette &
your patented split
finger four seam round-
house knuckle curve
slider thumps into my old
catcher’s mitt, the ump
squeals strike three
& I kiss you squarely
on the mound. Sweet
creamy nougat smothered
in rich milk chocolate, you
are my all-everything
center, anchoring
the line yet maintaining
your femininity while
I, the chiseled-chin
quarterback, smack your
ass & bark signals.
Standing tall in the pocket
I want to go long, but
Dick Butkus is coming
on a red dog, so I
eyeball the flanker’s
quick slant over the soft
middle when boom!
You pancake the blitzing
Bear backer, letting me
uncork a tight spiral
to the wide-out streaking
up the sideline for six.
Flag on the play. You’re
not the center, but the starting point
guard, a WAC sophomore
majoring in recreation &
an exceptional ball
handler. I’m your back
court complement, a slick
shooting small forward
with uncanny touch
behind the arc, a former
Diaper Dandy who never
lived up to the hype, but I’m
a senior now on fire
in the Big Dance, banging
clutch threes, man on top
of me, clock ticking
down when a true freshman
from Indiana beats me
off the dribble & takes it
to the hole untouched, but you
slip through a hard base line
pick & strip the buttery
Hoosier clean on the
double team & we fast
break the other way with
the acrobatic behind the
head between the legs jam.
Hooray! I’m the famous
Cap’n Spalding after big game
& you’re the buxom blonde
safari guide, expeditiously
tromping aphrodisiacal
foliage, shooting a foam-
flanked, torch-eyed
elephant in your zebra
striped pajamas. Exactly
how an elephant got
in your pajamas, honey,
I wish I knew, but I’m not
really Groucho—I just
walk that way after kissing
your bumper lapping you
at Talladega, my wine
No. 69 Chevy spilling
into the retaining wall &
bursting into a barrel-rolling
ball of flame, my brief
career seemingly over. Yet
time in & out
we’ve skated cross-ice
through the crease, body
checked by slashing, high
sticking goons
on shorthanded
power plays, me at left
wing & you—yes, the center
after all, not only
on the ice, but in every
milieu, slapping the puck
like the Great One.
in which a Texas
league single breaks up
the no-hitter in the ninth
on a two-out, two-
O pitch before
the paid attendance
of 43,000 whistling
manically when you kick
your stockinged leg
high as a Rockette &
your patented split
finger four seam round-
house knuckle curve
slider thumps into my old
catcher’s mitt, the ump
squeals strike three
& I kiss you squarely
on the mound. Sweet
creamy nougat smothered
in rich milk chocolate, you
are my all-everything
center, anchoring
the line yet maintaining
your femininity while
I, the chiseled-chin
quarterback, smack your
ass & bark signals.
Standing tall in the pocket
I want to go long, but
Dick Butkus is coming
on a red dog, so I
eyeball the flanker’s
quick slant over the soft
middle when boom!
You pancake the blitzing
Bear backer, letting me
uncork a tight spiral
to the wide-out streaking
up the sideline for six.
Flag on the play. You’re
not the center, but the starting point
guard, a WAC sophomore
majoring in recreation &
an exceptional ball
handler. I’m your back
court complement, a slick
shooting small forward
with uncanny touch
behind the arc, a former
Diaper Dandy who never
lived up to the hype, but I’m
a senior now on fire
in the Big Dance, banging
clutch threes, man on top
of me, clock ticking
down when a true freshman
from Indiana beats me
off the dribble & takes it
to the hole untouched, but you
slip through a hard base line
pick & strip the buttery
Hoosier clean on the
double team & we fast
break the other way with
the acrobatic behind the
head between the legs jam.
Hooray! I’m the famous
Cap’n Spalding after big game
& you’re the buxom blonde
safari guide, expeditiously
tromping aphrodisiacal
foliage, shooting a foam-
flanked, torch-eyed
elephant in your zebra
striped pajamas. Exactly
how an elephant got
in your pajamas, honey,
I wish I knew, but I’m not
really Groucho—I just
walk that way after kissing
your bumper lapping you
at Talladega, my wine
No. 69 Chevy spilling
into the retaining wall &
bursting into a barrel-rolling
ball of flame, my brief
career seemingly over. Yet
time in & out
we’ve skated cross-ice
through the crease, body
checked by slashing, high
sticking goons
on shorthanded
power plays, me at left
wing & you—yes, the center
after all, not only
on the ice, but in every
milieu, slapping the puck
like the Great One.
