Looking through the emaciated Black man Sweeping the shards of shattered Guiness bottle, He watched the ambulance's slow retreat. His anger was equally slow to ebb. Shaking the bottle's decapitated neck in the flashing lights He screamed, "I betta not get AIDS from yer blood, Ya friggin' queer." Back at Flannagan's, the boys all cheered When Charlie blew the head off his stout. "Just like I done to that fag, if'n I had my gun." To use his words. Later on, more than one drunk made his way home Thanks to a door-to-door hug from a buddy. Something about the moonlight and spring breezes Made Charlie think of his first kiss. And when his buddy helped him out of his pants at the foot of his bed, He thought about another first. The hangover had almost worn off by the first pitch As Charlie settled easy into his chair, Caressing a long-neck with one hand While the other slipped under his waistband Into that familiar middle-aged fat male pose That lends itself to private scratching And with little encouragement... A little more... The embraces and butt patting on the diamond Passed by Charlie's bloodshot eyes Without the slightest glimmer of irony. Seventh inning stretch in the bathroom, Making love to himself, Charlie still doesn't get the point -- He smashed that bottle over his own head.

Copyright � 1996 Ian Lynch. All rights reserved