My old horsehide head,
stitched together with red
thread, is fungo-thumped beyond
all green monsters of memory & I
can smell the reefer in your hair,
perfume of sweat from last night's
sex when we vowed we'd never be
ruled by the mechanics of greed.
Get clean for Gene? "Screw him
& the plastic pony he rode in on,"
you said & I trembled, amazed
by your big city tongue & your
love, our love for Yastrzemski.
Now forty years later, this email,
this electricity of your obituary,
this ice-shocking news, not ersatz
like the ergot of dream.
The Massachusetts Review
Volume 54, Number 4 - Winter 2013