I want to be your franchise player;
The reason you come out under
The lights.
My name and number sewn;
A hall of famer that will
Inevitably grace the walls
To the corridors
Of your memory with
A bust of my face.

I want to be the One.
Not the backup on
The bench with a
Crooked cap on my
Head and my helmet
Between my feet.
I need playing time
With you.

I want to win.
Fiercely. I have
No intention of
Joining other
Clubs, and I
Wouldn't handle
Free agency well.

Ill put you on my
chest everyday
And go to war
for you. Point
To you from the
Field when we score.
Then come home to
You.

(Every time we're distant is the offseason. Every time we're
Together is a championship
Parade)

I'd rather not write
than write poorly
the same way
I'd rather not laugh
if not wholeheartedly
the same way
I'd rather not care
when heartbroken.

Yet I write
when a decent sentence is a struggle
and I laugh  
when I'm so lonely I could vanish cold
and I care all too much
too often.

The balance came when I realized
that it would take one woman to
break my heart, two good friends
to water my eyes from laughter,
and one hundred poems before I chiseled something
worth looking at.

Messy, 'specially on Sundays.
Feet a'shamble from stumblin' drunkhappy.
"It's all good, baby," Blakey yells over the drums.

Bourbon flavored women hard to swallow
with their jagged softness. Smoking section (whites) stares
down dance floor (everyone else) with guilt induced jealousy.

Coltrane's back in Philly studyin.'
Pinstriped chuckle from the Rosenbergs;
kinetic energy giving birth to the cool.

The trumpeter's high turns his tool into a weapon.
The sound briefly stealing him from his demons.
"I'll find a guy when I finish my set."

Black and white televisions: blacks in white suites
Smiling china white for an all white audience.
The movers, to this point, have only been black.

Little hero Harry thinks
  blacks and whites should die on the battlefield together.
Everyone's starting to get it.

"That guitar sweeter than my old lady."
Charlie and Miles holding each other's needles
while Thelonious and his hard candy go bad.

Leanin' on bricks in a back alley.
The circle passes the joint around like the good times.
"Just keep em rollin."

The skirts expand and deflate wildly to the rhythm.
Pure sweat melting into the floors like drops of water on roots.
A melody never heard before.

There's nothing quite like
saying hello to someone
who doesn't remember
who you are.

They tilt their head, maybe
squint their eyes,
but nothing materializes.
Your face means nothing.

Even when you saved
the world together when
you were both ten

or wrestled on old
Mrs. Snyder's yard
for an autographed
Ken Griffey Jr. card

or fell in and out
of love with the same girl
throughout the tenth and
eleventh grade.  

Now your face means nothing
and a world of memory is
shattered against the soft
edges of your heart.  

Maybe its troubling that
moments spent so earnestly
could be
forgotten

or the idea that you could be, too.  

The truly valuable people
come like drops
of water from
a sandy canteen

so forgive me while I
pick up the pieces of
myself that broke
off with you.

I forgot
what I was saying  
when you asked
me where we go
from here
as the train felt
suddenly open
like the field
the last Buffalo
must have knelt
in and  
you tried to
reach me in the
backyard where
the guitar
collects cobwebs
then where you
learned to play
squash in your
summer dress
but by then my
train of thought had
passed the station,

leaving you pinning
that same piece of
cloth against your knees.

Behind  glass
we're  much  more  equipped*
    to  not  be  stung  by  the
   memories  of  the  wind.