Them Bruins
My girlfriend says she would like to be a fly
on the wall between two urinals.
“What would I overhear?” she asks me.
I tell her the last time a man spoke to me
above a urinal, I think he said, “How about them Bruins?”
“And what did you say in return?” she wants to know.
I tell her I didn’t know what to say because
I don’t know anything about hockey,
and I didn’t watch the game or even know
there was one. But I didn’t want him
to know that. So I said, “Goddamn!”
because it sounded heartfelt yet noncommittal,
and because he may or may not have been a Bruins fan,
and because the Bruins may or may not have won,
and because he was trying to make contact
with his gender, and if I said I didn’t see the game
or if I said I didn’t follow hockey or don’t
give a shit about the Bruins, he would probably
feel like he hadn’t made contact. And I would feel
less of a man. So I said, “Goddamn!” and he said,
“Unbelievable,” and shook his head in approval,
or maybe it was disapproval—it was hard to tell, I tell her,
because the whole thing was more or less peripheral.
***
Avian Blues
We, the Blue Jays, are playing the Buzzards,
having already lost to the Orioles,
Eagles, Cardinals, Hawks, and even
the Sparrows. Bobby Bro is on the mound,
that predacious lefty sidearm pitcher
with strabismus and a penchant for wild pitches.
His evil eye. His evil windup. The devil’s
delivery. I step flutteringly up to the plate,
chicken shit, caviling dove, hummingbird
hovering in the batter’s box. Tremulous. Tiny.
My beaked cap. My pigeon toes. The rictus
of his grin. The trajectory of his spit. And then
the windup, the pitch, the blind swing—more like
a swat. Two finches chasing a crow over the treetops.
***
Arata
We loved and hated Mr. Arata,
our soccer coach in junior high.
He yelled at us a lot because
he loved soccer and hated
to lose. I wondered if he loved
his wife and yelled at her too.
I can still see her standing there
at the edge of our soccer field,
worrying her hands and wincing
as he yelled at us for ducking
when we should have headed the ball,
yelled at us for passing when
we should have taken a shot,
yelled at us for shooting when
we should have passed.
He yelled at us so much he lost
his voice. After that, he used
a megaphone. We were seven
and seven when I stood up
for something more important
than winning: namely, seeing
that there was another way,
a quiet, leaf-strewn way that led
off the soccer field altogether,
past Mrs. Arata wringing her hands,
and down into the adjacent woods
where the courtships of small animals
were going on in the ravines. I used
my head, I used my feet, I quit
outright and never looked back.
To this day I am uncomfortable
around people who love sports
and hate losing. I love a good game
as much as the next guy. But I hate
the next guy when he can’t stop
yelling at his beloved team.
***
Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. His poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer’s Almanac, and the Best American Poetry blog. Website: paulhostovsky.com.
