who come in from the pasture.
Dreams should be pets gone fat.
In nightmares Mantle is
cramped, broad-shouldered,
in a taxi, hungry
as Mutt, his father,
who pitched his free time
to get Mick a ticket
from the mines.
He's late for the game, always.
And DiMaggio at the airport,
despite his tall grace,
eyes darting like some terrier's
as he stands beside his luggage,
glances at his watch;
he is late, as if he's waited years
to board a flight
that takes him back
to Marilyn.
And Mantle's dreams
can't shake the guards.
The announcer says,
"Now batting ... number 7,"
as Mantle finds a hole
in the fence
but can't squeeze through.
And DiMaggio
for twenty-one years
sends six red roses
three times a week
to her Hollywood crypt,
but they're a dog's
nervous patter.
The dreams of the greats should
be tame, trained
to open and close a gate,
with Mantle strolling
his heaver in center;
Monroe on her toes,
smiling, leaning into
The Clipper's arms,
returning the roses of her
red lips.
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