Three hours of erratic fly-by's and he's still a pacing mess,

bumbling along from jukebox to bar to his isolated post

near the side door, spanking his brow with furious adjustments.

Back and forth he goes no drip here! leavening his inner pabulum

with tinctures of Curly's agitated mewling and Kramden's distressed moons. Not once, never once, taking his eyes off the tube.

The ballgame's got him in knots terribly, terribly conflicting knots

wring-wringing the savage drunk out to the systolic knuckling and

splay of his hands.

Then along comes the Young Turk who thought he could bust one

up and in, and Bonds sends yet another into the drink, the dark night skies

in abeyance to the ball's drift and descent.

Through the roar and replays our knave's up with a bound

and cruising a fit of release. He's nimble and hefty at once

(a man become bull), hurtling down an imaginary lane of fire and wrath

until he zeroes in on his desired point

and shifts his offering to an evocatively fey mince, his hips

yanking the jeans down to an unbidden half life of his ass.

Look, I'm the bartender, I tell this guy to get the fuck outta here.

Tell him to go back to the sandbox he crawled out of Christ!

Having none of that though, he's rather satisfied. He sashays in place,

an ashtray and cigarette in one hand, and wishes in the other.

Welcome: behold the nexus of his lonely nights at the mirror

just before the throes of his stars abandon him and his jazz spatters the rug.