Saul Bennett
Beside Harlem's Still Waters
Picture him again!
hoisting me into his hold at the gate
almost before I could walk.
We sat almost always
upper right grandstand unreserved
at a One-ten and a dime for a scorecard
skipping the nickel pencil stump
for he never bothered to score.
He seldom cheered but electrified
himself, inflating high and wide his eyes
whenever they put two on,
those old War Giants
in that bathtub with short fences.
He never rose. He shelled nickel peanut bags
with a swift, frictional finger
advanced enough for fire.
When they won down down down
the reeling flights he hummed
to the blaring fan farewell anthem,
strode us down and deep into
that consecrated emerald plush
- they let you walk there then -
through heaven's gate in deepest center
up up up the aged El
beside Harlem's still waters.