spitting for distance

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 reason

or medical necessity.

Adrian Dolphin dressed this way,

his back to the fence at the right field line.

Russel Silvia who favored

the hand-me-downs of dressing,

quick to be dead of cancer, who smoked 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.

there was an absence of malice

in the trajectory of his airborne mucous;

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 red, afternoon sundown

in the neighborhood of our red-knuckled town.

you see, Russel was considerate that way.