He imagines himself an artist, le bohème,
but the moment the candle uncovers
her face the truth is what’s illuminated.
Ever so Russian, she toys with her possum;
feeds him cascading curls, black-magic eyes,

Small lakes form under armpits,
humidity prunes our faces
and on our brow
evidence of a hard day’s work
without the work.

My heart belongs to you Mickey Mantle,
flask in your locker, knees of knotted pine,
launching rockets from either side,
sweating yourself sober in center field,
eyes still crossed from last night’s bender.

We wore fedora hats
and ate nickel sandwiches,
played johnny-on-the-pony
and pitched copper pennies.

Like you, I promise nothing.
To a house blistered by ice I bring
a season of heat,

He must have hated this ground
or maybe loved what he feared.
Every brush stroke seems to whisper,