i sit here with these words on this computer screen
which has taken every breath from me over these years,
taken my fury, my indignation, my sorrow,
taken my semen and spit and eyesight and accompanied
the fluttering of my heart, what is it that has me prisoner here
while all my heroes die, while mickey mantle’s fading new york
times photo pinned to the wall, his mighty swing, home run
or strike out the same, his mighty, brave swing is the poem
of my youth and today the same, my swing, is it a swing,
is what i do a swing equal to the mick’s swing, what is it
that has me watching the yankees this year, game for game,
a driven man, crazed with attention, what is it that has me
dreaming my way into the stadium, the olympians here for me,
what is it that joins me with my father and my brother and
my sons, with all the men like me, lost, fatigued, defeated,
sick with the mists of despair, in some fantasy of love,
of desire, making love to the great woman or the worst woman,
the submission to sex and hope, what is it that has me
like this?
THE POETRY OF THE GAME