spitting for distance / elegy for Russel

a properly dressed young man,

say, in crisp chino trousers, plaid

button-down collared shirt,

slip-on penny loafers and so on,

would never be seen spitting

into the atmosphere without

a sound sociological reason

or emergency medical necessity.

Adrian Dolphin dressed this way,

his back to the fence at the right field line

always well equipped with filter-tipped cigarettes.

Russel Silvia who favored

the hand-me-downs of dressing,

quick to be dead of cancer, who smoked

straight Camel at two packs a day

was a fierce spitter employing a growling

gurgle from the deep end of his throat,

producing a massive, coagulated “lunger”

and with an outward puff of his cheeks,

out came the slimy ball of spit into space

over Bedford Street, gliding toward my house

like a wayward child's balloon, but

arching downward, splattering on the tarmac

somewhere near the middle.

It wasn't Russel's intent to hit my house.

absence of malice long before any of us knew of the term.

it’s just that being on the other side of Bedford,

my house was in the direct line of fire.

this is what Russel revealed to me as he

let one sail across the orange-tinctured

afternoon sundown in the neighborhood

of our red-knuckled mill-town.

you see, Russel, beneath his stiff, angular exterior

was more often than not considerate that way

when spitting for distance.