How I left the minors
so he turns to me & says it's
time to leave
& jangles the keys in his pocket
for emphasis,
so I follow him out of the bar
doggy-dumb
into the red VW convertible
& we're off
to his studio apartment in
North Beach,
where soon I lay naked, alluring &
mainly just stoned
on his elongated bed watching
him undress:
the Baltimore Orioles baseball jacket
falls floorwards
like a slow drop fly, followed by
a Georgia State
sweatshirt punted to the sidelines,
revealing ranks
of muscles uniformly populating
his upper anatomy,
over which a Bundeswehr tanktop
is swiftly heisted
as my gulping eyes watch
cheerleadingly
from the sidelines and he chucks
the SF Giants
baseball cap onto the bed
& peels
himself with athletic concentration
from his tight Levi's,
still damp from the fog outside,
then fondles
briefly the eloquent contents of
his jockstrap
& finally stands before me wearing
nothing
except his white cotton socks &
his penis
& bends over the mattress to whisper
into my ear:
welcome, Kid, to the majors