In the book, Nick Shay ends up with the home run
ball (coveted, miracle, prize). His wife has an affair
with his colleague. No spoilers,
except they stay together. This seems to be the way
the bruise keeps forming.
I like to think I’d be unforgiving.
That I could leave without answers, no body hanging
from my neck—an albatross thumped
as offering to all my friends
laid bare on the table. I have seen more
soft spots than I care to count. They all know
how the Dodgers felt in 1951. Found out
the enemy was in their hometown this whole time,
lurking at the seaport like a beady-eyed gull.
I like New York: All briny and competitive with itself.
What other city has two football teams
and two baseball teams and hockey teams
and basketball teams? A double or nothing bet
that stopped winning a long time ago.
I like baseball as a metaphor because it’s simple
the way life is simple.
It’s just the rules making it complicated.
Maybe we all have an obstructed view.
Maybe we’re just waiting for the bomb to go off.
Maybe we’ll stand up when we hear the bat crack.
The Giants and Dodgers both left New York
and so did all my friends.
There’s a breakup waiting at every airport.
I’m writing this poem for my friend
about a book I’m reading for her ex-boyfriend.
She won’t like the book
and he won’t like the poem
and I don’t like men who read books and write poems
and miss you so hard they become tragic
seabirds with clipped wings, waiting scavenge
until you’ve already pulled yourself apart.