Never thought I’d come to dislike the kid
I see in the pictures. Whip-smart, so eager
for experience, so quick to complete other
people’s sentences. Candy for the girls. Now?
I hate him in the photographs. With that self
assured look, a dancer on the precipice
of the stage. What exactly was the point
of knowing Montrachet from Montigny?
Why it pays to take the outside pitch to the
opposite field? Buy on bad news. The
hard lessons to come aren’t printed yet.
If they were he’d look like Queequeeg,
tattoos of trouble from head to foot.
I want to tell him, “Look out”, but he doesn’t
listen except to his own voice. I recognize
that voice. But it only wants dead air.