“that’s right.”

some heads turned.

when the beer arrived I

lifted it and had a good hit.

the waiter came back again

and smiled, “no glass?”

“thank you,” I said, “no glass.”

then we ordered our meals.

when the waiter left my wife

said, “please get a glass, Hank.”

“I prefer it this way,” I said.

“I’m not going to be able to

eat,” she said.

I lifted the bottle extra high,

held it like I was playing a

high note on a coronet,

had a good hit.

“you bastard,” my wife

said.

I smiled.

god, I was bad.

and it was still only 9 p.m.

on a Sunday

night.

plenty of time to really

fuck up.

I

yawned.

poem for my 71st birthday

yes, I’m still here, doing about what I’ve always

done, although there are some moments of

hesitation

like I’ll be at the plate and the big guy out

there will be about ready to fire one in

and I’ll call time, step outside the batter’s

box, knock some dirt off my cleats, look

around, there are sometimes blinding flashes of

light in my eyes

but I’ll gather myself, shake it off, get back

in the box, feel the power returning, I

can’t wait for the big guy’s next pitch and it

comes in, a slider, bastard can’t fool me,

I get the wood on it, it goes out of there,

way out of there and I trot the bases

as the young guys curse me under their

breath; too bad fellows, you see you

have to have a feel for it and as long as

it’s there, you keep going, and when

you can’t do it anymore, you’ll still be

asking for one more turn at bat, just to

be there, even to swing and miss, it’s the

doing that gets it done,

don’t you understand this?

like this one here, it’s probably only

a single or a short hopper to the

shortstop,

but I’ve had my swing

and I’ll be back a few times

more,

the big guy doesn’t have me

out of here

yet.

slow night

caught out of focus,

time is thin,

my slippers are

on,

the cats are asleep,

organ music on

the radio,

I light a cigar,

struggle for a

gentle

sanity.

I have eaten,

I have bathed.

the bottle is

unopened.

oh, if the boys

could see me

now.

or if I could see

them,

the “them” that

are left.

I will soon sleep,

my toes pointed

north.

tomorrow, if it

comes, could be

somewhat

better.

meanwhile, I

turn off the desk

lamp,

rise,

walk toward the

bedroom

followed by

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,

10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,

16, 17, 18, 19, 20,

21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26,

twentyseven

28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33,

34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39,

40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45,

46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51,

52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57,

58, 59, 60

sixtyone

62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67,

sixtyeight

69, 70,

71

years.

to join the good wife

who endures

me.

the racetrack salutes you!

MILITARY DAY,

Sunday Sept. 8

FREE Grandstand Admission for

ALL Active Duty, Reserves, Retired,

Widows, Widowers & Dependents

Present I.D. at specially marked gates.