Extra Innings

I used to try to think about
baseball, but realized
that I didn't know enough
about the game to
really concentrate on it.

I have heard that thinking
about yard work can be
effective, but growing
up in California, I have
seen too many bikini-clad
women watering lawns for that
to do much good.

A few years ago, I concocted
the single saddest scenario I
could muster: The cries of the
last kitten alive inside a
burning pet shop.

I can remember feeling
drowned in an absurd emotional
rush and my tears falling
onto my girlfriend's neck
and shoulders. I'm still
haunted by the sight of
her eyes slowly opening,
forming the most tender look
of concern as she
wiped my cheeks with her
gentle palms.

Sometime later she confessed
that was the morning she
realized she loved me, that
my tears were more endearing than
any flower or any gift that
could be bought. I was
moved to finally make peace
with myself. Last Valentine's
day, I bought her a ring and
a kitten, and on a whim I
bought us both season tickets
to the Angels.

T Jordan - 1993

Privacy Please

Waking to a familiar voice,
"Whispers dig deeper." she
says, squatting down on me,
breathing hot into my ear.
I stare through red eyes at
the neon sign and think of
eating breakfast alone,
getting a glass of water,
finding a new lover.

Stepping into my shorts.
her arm on my back as I
stand to a tilting room
and a sonic boom. I don't
look at her as I walk toward
the kitchenette. Scaring her
with a 9 a.m. beer
might tear her out of
bed, but not out of this
cozy room.

Opening the refrigerator.
A pathetic giggle mixed with
a rusty burp as I realize
how stupid it was for me to
put the beer on the bottom
shelf. I lean into the
head rush and turn into the
spin. Knees on linoleum,
head on vegetable crisper.

Footsteps or heartbeats
echo then stop, a door
slams, the room grows
dark and cool. I blink and
squint to see the
privacy sign spinning wildly
on the handle.

T Jordan - October 1990

Sandy Bottom

It's Saturday night. My phone
rings and I let the machine
pick it up. It's the
girl who broke up with
me two weeks ago calling
"just to say hi and see how you are."
I make a toast in the direction
of her voice and slosh some
vodka on the couch.

So-called friends tell me she's
dating a surfer from
Hermosa. There aren't any
waves in Long Beach. Not
anymore. Not since they built the
breakwater, and, more
recently, poured gravel along
the breaker shallows to
protect the shoreline from
erosion.

I look at my hairy gut and remind
myself that at least my
knees are still good. I
picture this girl
and her surfer rolling
around inside sandy
sheets, and her thinking how
hard and adorable her new
hairless friend is -
at least for a while. At
least until she discovers
that this guy can't write
poetry or tie his
shoes without Velcro.

Then she'll call me again,
and this time I'll answer.
We'll take a walk down to the
ocean and sit near the water's
edge, and listen carefully over
the silence of the beach
at night for the ripples
lapping against the gravel.
I'll read her a poem, we'll hold
hands, and track sand back into
the bedroom.

T Jordan - June 1987