Latter Days, Old Boys

The demolition crew is tearing down
my elbows. They’ve bused us
subdivision husbands, shrink-wrapped, knits.
Shrinks consult our technicolor records,
bygone times, 8-milimeter segments,
cause-effect. For the elect
time has been made metric.
I’m on the downward cantilever,
dangerously dinosaur. Husbands,
let us step into our homemade rockets,
amateurs. But faster than a speeding
locomotive, disabled in a single bound.
Bound to be the splatter on your windshield
just a foot above your dashboard,
solitary gossamer appendage
flim-flamming in the wind.

Amateur Athletics

There were no bleachers, no box seats, no suites. No
Jumbotron, concession stand, no place where you could

buy a hot dog, beer, or souvenir. There was
no press box. No stringer for the local weekly paper. No
television crew. There were

no cheerleaders, no girls or guys to twirl batons
or make formations at the half-time show. There were

no referees, no rulebooks, no boundary lines
laid down in lime. There was

no website, corporate sponsor,
stat-book bearing records of the all-time best.

There was only Mike and me at the lip of the ravine,
a pile of rocks we scavenged in the woods. There was
only Mike to say, Let’s see

who can hit the beehive on that alder first.