I made it to first base, a crack in the curb
near the tree where Monica stood
watching us play baseball in the street.
She had taken herself out of the game
we played with cracked bats and baseballs
coming unstitched with every whack.
As I waited for a chance to steal second
she sized me up like she was scouting me
for another team and said,
“You could really be cool if you tried,”
something between a taunt and a plea,
the tone in her voice making me think
I could be cool or wish I wanted to be
enough for her to like me.
But I had no more an idea how to be cool
than to hit home runs like Mickey Mantle.
Cool was something about the way
she wore makeup now and slouched, hopeful,
near teenagers I was afraid of,
something about growing up and turning
my back on the cat-chasing, can-kicking,
fence-jumping, doctor-and-nurse-playing
childhood we shared until she went
someplace way beyond first base.
The major league was pulling her away
but there was nothing we could do or say
and it was not cool for either of us to beg.