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.
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.