Summer nights at Dick’s Bar with the tall
upright industrial fans
blowing the heat around sounding muffled
but loud like a prop plane idling
in a distant airport hangar and the ballgame
barely audible on the cheap radio
and we waited forever to get a beer
when the Tigers were batting
discussing the pushback of the revolution
the delay of dreams.
We made conversation in close lips to ears
until the game broadcast
was over and clicked off and the fan motors
were snapped off
together in the same instant freeing one
lone human voice to ring
out clear and loud in the barroom
as if amplified
“all packed in there asshole to elbow
and the pigs….”
a slice of a complete thought hanging
in Dick’s Bar
dangling in time in a silent way waiting
for a new beginning.
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Poems as baseball metaphor:
by Harry Calhoun
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