Top Sock Hop

                                                               When i breathed her
                                                                      it was like
                                                             inhaling the air of some
                                                                      other planet.
                                                                   A better planet.
                                                            I was a stranger there, yet
                                                               she welcomed me in

                                               and suddenly  " they're dancin' in Chi-ca-go "'
                                                            " down in New Orleans "
                                                                            and
                                                    " ev-ry-where... a-round the world "
 
                                                                         It got late.
                                                                   I'm feeling dizzy.
                                           I found my Flagg Bro. shoes w/the cuban heels
                                                                 and walked the slow
                                                                       walk home
                                                                   on icy sidewalks
                                                               from Brother Rice  H.S.
                                                                 into Mt. Greenwood
                                                                               on
                                                                    that friday night
                                                                  in the winter of  '67.
                                                                            Alone.

                             They advised me to  " just hold her in your lungs for as long as
                                                                          you can
                                                       and exhale her through your nose. "

The Balcony Scene

                                                            There wasn't room
                                                                   under her
                                                                    balcony
                                                               for a folk song
                                                                performance
                                                                     from a
                                                                  symphony.
                                                              no beat-nik chin.
                                                                   no figaro.
                                                             no Harvest Moon.
                                                                 no do-se-do.

                                                             There wasn't room
                                                                   inside her,
                                                                don't you see?
                                                           She was all filled up.
                                                                  At capacity.
                                                  Once,  their words were so pretty
                                                          then it got pretty mean.

                                       The curtain closed to save them the balcony scene.

leather handed

       In my neighborhood
       even if you never played
       any organized baseball
       growing up, you had
       a glove
       and you knew that glove
       You didn't have to print
       your name on it
       You KNEW it
       You knew how it looked on the end
       of your out-stretched arm... making
       a back-hander
       or how it felt... catching
       a short-hopper on hard dirt in a parking lot
       or how it looked
       just lying there in the grass
       in foul territory 
       when you were batting
       How it took to your fingers
       How to use it to block the sun and.....make the catch
       The style
       The lacing
       The make
       The pocket
        I used to like to throw my mitt, try to
        hit stuff.....a tree trunk a can or a
        cat
        when i wasn't using it for
        baseball work
        I used to like to stick my nose right up
        in the pocket
        and really sniff that leather
        Inhale it
        Bite it
        When it needed it i
        oiled it
        I maintained that glove
        It wasn't a pure-bred
        Nope
        not an expensive Wilson or
        Rawlings model
        It wasn't a celebrity
        Not like that one in Hearts in Atlantis
        or Opie Taylor's black and white mitt
        or even......
        whatever Roy Hobbs wore
        when he set Wonderboy down
        Ha, no tale like that to tell
        But we made some catches, me
        and mine
        We did.... for real
        Of course, there is no record ANY of these " got it " catches EVER
        took place on ANY summer day
         But one-time Oak Park apartment house
         neighbor john raad and his cousin
        were standing right next to me
        on the 1st base side, when
        i caught that *foul ball
        at Comiskey,
        the only real-game ball i ever caugh, did it
        Without my mitt
        Damn
        I never took my glove to a Major League baseball game,
        ever...sorry
        
                      * It was a hooking line drive in the
                           middle of the game by some
             veteran been-around on the Angel's that
                           batted right and let-me-tell-you that ball
         just kept coming arcing in this slo-motion split-second kinda way to EXACTLY
                       where i was sitting soon standing wide-eyed
                                                              breathless Oh Baby ,  i'm
                                        yelling out ....." got it "
                         
                                   man oh man oh man oh man      
        

know how shaky feel

                                                                                So, you
                                                                                  think 
                                                                  i'm a-cement truck flinging
                                                                           dust and gravel
                                                                                     or
                                                                      some back-road scribe
                                                                              creeping the
                                                                        rhyme less-traveled,
                                                                                  do ya?
                                                                                   Well,
                                                                               i think i'm
                                                                              just the guy
                                                              that you want behind the wheel.
                                                                       A poet that knows the
                                                                             shaky ground.
                                                   
                                                                        know how shaky feel




            

The Anatomy of a Puppet

                 It's those strings and things.
                 Those old tattoo's.
                 That cherry wood.
                 Those faded blues.
                 The eye that needs to be re-painted.
                 The nails and screws.
                 They keep his head inflated.
                 It's the time.
                 The cost.
                 Repairs aren't cheap, nor
                 the pharmaceuticals required to help a puppet sleep.

                 It's those strings and things.
                 Those skinny arms.
                 That colossal nose.
                 Those false alarms.
                 The act's the same... the same for years.
                The same audience, too.
                When the smoke disappears.
                 It's that loose hinge
                 and the tousled hair.
                 That dummy needs Intensive Woodshop Care. 

                 It's those strings and things.
                 Those yesterdays.
                 That scuffed-up suitcase.
                 Those metal ashtrays.
                 The anatomy of a puppet, man
                  or the remnants of a puppets plan.  
                  It's those strings and things.
                  The wear and tear.
                  It's the hand in the pants of puppets everywhere.