What you doin’ there, Kid,
Throwin’ pennies down the well of the universe?
Kid Rilke looked up from his labors at the pensive Babe.
O Sultan of Metaphor, how is it you performed
Feats of such heroic, physical exuberance only
To wobble like hope and fall ingloriously?
Ain’t that the truth, but you know as well as me
Death’s always warmin’ up in the bullpen.
Hell, you can get knocked out in the first inning.
Kid Rilke nodded and stretched panther-like.
I tend to go in for metaphysical suppleness
But I like your style, Babe.
You are America, the kinetic expletive,
And I, Europe, the burdened sensualist.
The Babe bit on his hot dog and told
The Kid not to get discouraged: words only
Mattered to sad sacks and fuddy-duddies.
Thanks, the Kid said as the ungainly god
Trotted away. The sky froze to a lachrymose gray.
The Kid sang. The Babe never looked back.
from Impenitent Notes (2011)
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