Spring of Life

Out to the bleacher We were drawn By sun burning down, Melting stubborn White snow mounds, While the girls Still with wintry-pale legs Trotted the bases Or lowered to grateful grass In the broad outfield And stretched calves out With spread lean thighs We somehow knew Would one day open That way for love, So we bee-essed About doing it, How much, which one, Braggadocious banter Of the uninitiated; And some cute face Buried in the shade Of her batting helmet From time to time Would smile through Wire backstop diamonds At us, bat shouldered And gold block letters Denoting “West High” Adhering to the contours Of her nascent bust While darkness stained Cloth at shaved armpit And atop pert fanny; Maybe, we hoped, One or a few Would mount the ladder Of wooden bleacher Up to us after practice And offer thanks that we Shagged foul balls By letting us inhale That perfume-sweat-red clay melange Only a girl can attain, Fragrance that lingered with a guy Late at night In a desolate bed During the sublime chaos Of his spring of life.