AT THE HOP

At the Hop

After the game there is always

a soc hop in the gym: we dance

the stroll, the funky slop, the jitterbug,

the bunny-hop, and still find time

to twist and shout. Bill Halley, a kiss

curl on his forehead, starts us all

rocking around the clock, girls wet

their pants screaming at a fat man,

weighed down by diamonds, who

finds his thrill on Blueberry Hill,

the Everly Brothers singing “Wake up,

Little Susie,” Ricky Nelson of the

dreamy bedroom eyes, Little Richard

of the foot-high flattop, Jerry Lee Lewis

mangling his piano, pretty boy Frankie

Avalon in suit and tie asking Venus

to enter his lonely life, but most of all at

Elvis of the swivel hips and kiss me lips,

putting down his friends as hound dogs

while making the jailhouse rock,

and we all cry when Buddy Holly and

the Big Bopper perish in a plane crash.

Yet, contra Don McLean’s “American Pie,”

to this day the music never dies.

I Wanted to Ask You to Lunch

Standing in the classroom window

I watch you walk to school

red coat bright as my heart

gum where my tongue should be

hugging your books to your breasts

Strolling to the water fountain

out of the corner of my eye

I watch you taking notes

Out of the corner of your eye

you note me watching you

Passing in the hall after class

I want to ask you to lunch

with small talk I bait you to pause

you nibble then squirm down stream

off to another man’s house

Of Hoops and Hopes

My Dad once told me I had

the best jump shot he ever saw,

a testimony to how few games

he’d seen yet a touching tribute

any son would treasure.

Back before the three-point line,

I had a smooth long-distance stroke,

not only on my jump shot but also

a one-hand set shot, another one-hand shot

that resembled the motion of a layup,

and a two-hand set shot Dolph Shayes

taught me—his professional trademark.

By the time the three-point line arrived

my hops were gone along with

what might-have-been.

Saint Sebastian

Saint Sebastian might as well

be pairing his fingernails for all

the pain he shows as arrows turn

his skin into a pin cushion.

I remember how Jamie and I

in a Spanish art museum, not

the Prado, burst out laughing

after viewing several paintings

of Saint Sebastian displaying

his insouciant indifference

to repeated perforations.

How can we know a fish

is weeping? How can we

believe in Sebastian’s wounds

if he doesn’t give a fig to

show his exquisite agony?

William Heath has published three poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, and Going Places; two chapbooks: Night Moves in Ohio and Leaving Seville; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake's Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone. He lives in Annapolis. www.williamheathbooks.com