for Colin

He’s the historian he’s
got tallies stitched behind

the floorboards of every
lore he spins, nick names

& scoreboard shame
punches thrown

& homegames blown
up until the dirtiest

of mismatched details
quits its job in mall store

retail and hightails it
out his mouth like proof

of some uncouth and not
quite legal brand

of smalltown microscope.
But blue eyes, there is hope

for you the joke’s of course
on whom your brain

elects to memorize and you
my cornered friend are

slightly borrowed, slightly
prized and altogether

heedless of the tonnage
of your fulltime occupation

you’re just a new york boy
with piss poor circulation