-the Bay is the Mount Hope, the Taunton is the River-

1.

they’re excavating to lay a foundation north of the Mount Hope

at the banks of the Taunton, the high northward of the river

toward its beginnings.

I can hear the sounds of industry distant enough to haunt,––

all for the sake of development;  an Erechtheum on the Taunton.

could be housing for the multitudes and I guess that’s okay.

since we the people necessarily live someplace we may as well

have a river view.

the busses don’t run like they use to,

and the taxicab companies are broke, their cars so beat-up

they look like welterweights at the bell closing the 9th.

the churches are near empty; the priests,

cloaked in their collective guilt are still seen driving around..

2.

my son called from Los Angeles last night.

I told him when I croak he’s getting some damn good poems

for a quick look-see when his daily vocations are concluded.

I advised him to be on the lookout; ––to keep his eyes peeled

like a Crow scouting for the 7th cavalry. a terrible analogy. meanwhile,

  

3.

time advances toward my place of standing in the world.

––all's fair when everything's considered from the middle.

northward, the machine of industry distant enough to haunt,

is laying the foundation for a structure.

City

    

               -populating the interior-

               It was the rarest of moments

               entering an empty “house” at 1017.

               father’s working his drive through the eastern route.

               mother’s visiting a friend and who knows who?

               grandmother and grandfather are seen

               walking beyond left field toward the church
               for yet another funeral.

               it’s the time in life when they’re dropping like flies.

               my sister’s expected home from spending time
               at the "house" of the fascinating Edwina Mello

               and my brother’s temporarily ensconced in the dark,
               North End of town accompanied by the little lunatic
               who goes by the name: Douglas "Dougie” Bear.

               but here, there’s nothing to look into.

               there’s little if anything to make my own.
               the bedroom doors are open to rooms of fading mysteries.

               the closed dresser drawers are of little to no interest;

               I’ve seen the insides of them; the dry,
               tangled guts of common cloth.

               the sink and gas stove look dead.
               linoleum looks to peel away at the corners by the sheer force of nature.

               my friends are cloistered inside their own “houses”
               which form a perfect circle around the nucleus of the world.

               there’s a note on the kitchen table left there for my sister,
               written in our young mother's delicate hand:

               “Janice,

               I'll be back soon.

               tell Billy to stay in the house”.

               I’m the only one in the “house” left standing to read the note

               and I’m the only one singled-out by name to "stay in the “house”.

              from the first floor tenement, called the "house" /  1954

-Only you-

There's a lot that can happen at the plate.

You can stand on either side of it with a 3 & 2 count,

with men on 2nd and 3rd, behind by 2 in the 8th,

waiting with nowhere near the patience of Job.

You can strike out at the plate.

You can slide into it feet first, head first, hands first.

You can squat behind it flashing secret finger signs

while the pitcher bends his torso and stares you down like priest.

Consider this: the stubby fingers of the catcher, often the most

unkempt player on the field held to the same artistry as one

would demand in the performance of a ballet

You can observe the goings-on standing behind the catcher,
bending your torso so that everything's on the up-and-up,

and when all this seriousness is over,

you can have a lot of fun at the plate, jumping

up and down on it like a gang of dusty lunatics
whenever somebody hits the game-winner. 

Watch out! You'll certainly get beaned at the plate

if you approach it as if it belongs to only you.

I once knew a kid who played second base

for Immaculate Conception (called: “the I-macs”)

in the old CYO League of Fall River who

seemed a little crazy when he marked
the cross of the crucifixion in the dirt
with the knob of his bat at the edge of the box
before stepping to the plate.

At about the same time, Jimmy Piersall,
centerfielder for the Red Sox was doing the same thing
before stepping-up and Jimmy, well, he seemed to go a little crazy, too.

So, yeah. There’s a lot that can happen at the plate.

6/3/17 RIP

          -certified alternate-

          
          you may have inadvertently knocked at the door to the wrong house.

          'could be you've run into the wrong man regardless of poetry.
          even so, I'll accept your arrival as a positive response to an invitation.

          nothing said this early in the morning will urge you to sit at the edge of your seat.

          there’ll be no revelations or titillations and to be clear,

          even a spritz of truth gleaned from the institution is enough when

          counter-storytellers of the subject matter are are either

          dead or uninvolved or nincompoops.

          they should've written their own damn poems.

          sure, there'll be deep-throated grunts of disapproval and

          sure, the antagonist will demand peer review documentation

          but goddamn! I'm just daydreaming for christsake. 

          2014

-a summer morning-

1.
Saturday and the early church
bell tolls as the ballpark opens to sunlight.

It’s a measured knell, the muted
clapper inhaling between each strike to its metal lung.

It’s the toll for the dead
as we gather at the plate to choose-up
the sides who will play the game.

we're waiting on Petrillo who's standing
across the street as the slow procession rolls by, a true
stone's-throw from the red-brick facade of the church

whose bell calls the solemn bereaved to someone's end-of-the-line.

(there’s an awkward silence at the plate

brushing across the shuttered mouth of the game)

Petrillo's young temptation is to cross to the ballpark
jolting between the broken links of the murmuring transport
and he's fast enough to do it, but–– he waits it out.

behind us at the bakery's door, the ancient
Italian widow respectfully signs:

one touch for the father, one touch for the son.––
the holy ghost gets two.

2.
from the heavy four-footed print of his house, Petrillo
crosses behind the final car of second cousins, passing through
the gate at the towering backstop and we start to choose-up.

the death knell sounds in the name of one whose time has come
and the last kid standing in the dirt at the plate is taken by force.

Columbus Park, 1953-1954? 1952.