For Liz Roscher
It’s arrogance that takes land, uneven and sliced through
with meandering creeks between two tidal rivers
and imposes grids, and Opticons, papers over the rest
with a compact with the powerless, spores of smallpox
dormant in the parchment. So take a hike, pal.
We forget these things by constantly memorializing them
on sports-talk radio, a Jew and an Italian
befouling what’s still, on early autumn evenings, Lenni Lenape air.
We remember the guy who broke his nose,
but dress the Venezuelan star, out in right field,
under a big sombrero and a mesquite tree, siesta-ing under lazy fly balls.
Our beloved mascots are kabuki monsters who hang out
with monsters, doing monstrous things in fetid catacombs
beneath Suburban Station, which we try to escape each night
only to be pulled back in each bleary morning.