I can’t for any price remember much
Just how we came to trading punch for punch;
Was it my name that smelled of doggie food
Or yours that rhymed conveniently with puke?
At any rate we banged around the locker room,
Aiming for pain while dodging spiky hooks,
Until the lad named Squeejee broke us up,
Moralizing us to pledge a grudging shake.
Then afterwards, your pitcher’s letter stitched,
I wondered if you’d made the Show at last.
Some classmates told me you’d made quite a pile,
Then lost it all or cashed out – all the same,
Retired to the outer suburb ring,
Left voiceless on the board but mortgage-free,
That you misused a wife or two or three,
Or was it they who maybe misused you?
I know how women are, believe you me,
As hard to hold as the beads of mercury
You rolled around your palm in old Chem One,
Back in the moments that our rivalry
Boiled at the center of a clashing world.