[The eighth installment of the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"Alter Boy"
Jimmy Bottomley
I'm well armed as I stand waiting at the corner of Main and 7th.
All the best dirt bombs I dug up are piled at my feet.
Finally the noisy procession arrives, and I reach down and let fly.
Each throw's a perfect strike; great brown clouds rise
From the plunked monster like dust from a beaten rug.
"Attaboy, Jimmy!" Coach Saunders shouts from the street.
"Keep firin' like that and you'll be an all-star next season!"
I answer his wink with an "aw, shucks" grin, even
As I palm another clump and launch into my windup.
Meantime the mob pushes on, and Father D. moves into view,
Preaching about the need "to cast the Beast from our midst."
Sensing my presence, the priest turns to face the curb,
And automatically my arm angle shifts mid-delivery.
The mound of dirt hits him right in his frowning mouth.
His cry and his coughs cause me no regrets--
That's what the gorgeous bastard gets for
Blowing me off that time I offered him me.
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