II
He was formidable, he was, the little booger,
As
he spat in his hands and picked up the Louisville Slugger,
And at that bat-crack
Around those bases he could sure ball the jack,
And
if
from the outfield the peg had heat him home,
He would slide in slick, and mean as a snigger.
So we dreamed of an afternoon to come,
In the Series, the ninth-inning hush, in the Yankee Stadium,
Sun low, score tied, bases full, two out, and he'd waltz to the
plate with his
grin-
But no, oh no, not now, not ever! for in
That umpireless rhubarb and brute-heeled hugger-mugger,
He got spiked sliding home, got spiked between the box cars.
Oh, his hair was brown-bright as a chestnut, sun-glinting and
curly,
And that lip that smiled boy-sweet could go, of a sudden, man-
surly,
And the way he was built
Made the girls
in
his class in dark stare, and finger the quilt.
Yes, he was the kind you know born to give many delight,
And entering on such life-labor early
Would have moved, bemused in that rhythm and rite,
Through blood-throbbing blackness and moon gleam and pearly
thigh-glimmer of night,
To the exquisite glut:
Woman Slays Self For Love,
as the head–
line would tell.
But no, never now! Like a kid in
his
first brothel,
In that hot clasp and loveless hurlyburly,
He spilled, as boys may, too soon, between the box cars.
