Is it always my fault if the meat
is too rare, the wine still corked?
Even in my foothold in the sheets
I dream of sundaes and earthquakes,
not these baseball bats of sterling silver.
There’s no line between desire and despair:
Cleveland has already made that mistake.
You say that older players also feed
on manuals, suntan lotion, and dusty statistics,
that like soldiers they are alone,
stripping others near warming showers
and sleeping until noon,
giving away broken shoelaces for parting gifts.
I see only wrinkles and smoky voodoo
and won’t learn how to live here there.
I think now I may let you both go
for my knees ache: I’m going to squat
and piss on your pinstriped knick-knacks
and in my will leave my underwear
to wives, the dirty parts highlighted.
For you, I’ll give back your damned jockstrap: too bad
Jesus left his penis on the cross.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
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