COMING CLEAN

For Puma P. who midwifed this poem.

Stealing from a cancer patient
didn't take a lot of thought;
in fact,
it required no thinking:
here was the drug; and
here I was;
and I was alone
with all those morphine bottles
staring at me
and whispering:
take me, no,
take me, no,
what about me?
I took out my syringe-
an old glass & steel needle job--
& plunged it
into the heart
of the stopper.
She was an old woman,
ancient really,
her skin like yellowed papyrus,
gray tufts of hair
haphazard on her pillow.
Surely,
she was on her way
out.

Her nurse & her niece
(who was kind enough to bring me),
were in an outer room
discussing her care,
her end of life care, & here
I was just starting
my beginning of life care
in the year of our Lord, 1970,
a stone's throw from New Orleans,
in 100 degrees, 100% humidity summer,
& I needed to be cool,
to get straight, to buy myself
a few days to plan
for my future.
I'm sure, if I was able
to ask her, & if she was able
to respond, she'd be
more than happy to exchange
her comfort
for my safety.
No doubt she'd want
to buy me more time.

I still think
of that old lady
from time to time
looking down
from heaven
& seeing me
still busily
at work
turning out
poem after poem
after poem
knowing
what a wise investment
she made.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020For Puma P who mid-wifed this poem

BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

and the deuces were wild:
two on,
two strikes,
two outs,
and down two runs.

Savage, I heard,
grab some wood.
A slimy wad of brown chaw
mixed with lung phelgm
landed a heartbeat
from my cleated feet.
I didn't have to look up
to know it was the little runt's discharge,
my manager, a hardball lifer
and proud delinquent ducking
his 3 x's & tit sucking brood
not to mention a city
that had started to turn against him
after his last seeya next year tunes.

Once, he had loved me.

Once, I had loved him,
until my body turned
against both of us:
injuries one year
followed by more injuries
on top of old injuries the next.
Then it was deception,
followed by illusion,
followed by delusion,
followed by the wooden pine
of an open-air coffin.
Finally, we nurtured
a permitted hatred
for those who died
just when needed the most.
Savage, he spat,
do somethin.

I grabbed my stick
and sauntered into
the on-deck circle
as if I owned it.
I wore no gloves--
I was old school.
There was a smattering of applause
amid the boo's & groans.
Fuckem, I said to myself,
they know shit.
I pawed the dirt
in the batter's box
staking out my claim
and watched the catcher
and pitcher discuss
the elements of conquest.
I thought I saw a smirk
on both their faces.
Fuckem too, I muttered.
His first pitch pushed me back,
& his second knocked me down.
Then he laid in two sliders
on the black, impossible
to hit even with a broom.
I stepped from the box,
dusted my hands with dirt,
& steadied myself.
I saw the ball
leave his hand,
red stitches swirling in the sun
as big as the cape must appear to the bull;
a fucking off speed curveball
coming right in to my fucking wheelhouse.
The bat tightened
in my finger's grip, forearms pulsed
with concentrated strength pushing
my veins like elevated highways
from the world's embrace,
shoulders flexed,
eyes fixed on the globe spinning my way,
my body tensed & tingly.

But I couldn't pull the fucking trigger.
I couldn't get the fucking bat to move.
I couldn't fucking do it anymore.

Later, that night,
when my wife slid into bed
next to me, next to my turncoat body
to comfort me I knew
a blowjob was mine for the asking.
And sexy she still was;
and loving she still was;
her magic had not worn out
after all these years
of working the territory.
Her breasts,
so round & perfect,
begged me to use them;
her cunt, waxed
& perfumed opened
its petals spread moist
& glistening...
but I was assigned
to the bench,
my playing days
in the old US of A
offically over.

Baby, I said to her,
how does Japan grab ya?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020