Intruding, it’s a gamble

I looked over the edge of my half-folded paper

hiding the sports section from a Mets fan

like the back page on the Post

didn’t cramp a good man’s disposition

and duodenal track enough

I heard him thinking, his lips were moving

thinking out loud like the pre-Advil somnambulist dance

we all do just when a world championship scrapes our

knuckles against a pre-history boundary

subway series, hell

but I still hear him thinking

who in all manifestations of bi-polar lower track complications

fought the writing on the wall

yeah, right, we’re putting up the good fight

poor motherfucker we were thinking

in the autumnal delusional prank called

the Wild Card series

and so I say to him:

“Says here Bush wants to build a Presidential Library.”

Baseball aside we are fast the best of friends

we are nearly laughing at our circumstance

we are intruding, and it’s always a gamble

but then again,

my wire-tapping friend,

what isn’t?