Georgie blurred by me again. And again.

Imprisoned in a spacetime
always a frame behind his spacetime,
I pawed at the catchable illusion
as he flashed down the true field of glory.

I blocked his turn off a pivot
as-swish!-he shot off the turn.

I tagged the foot
stabbed deep into home.

What I wanted to do and could never do
no matter how much effort and practice
he did first try, no sweat.

Georgie.
As in, Ah fongool! They get to pick Georgie!
And, Yo, Georgie's up! Goodbye spaldeen.

After highschool, I lost track of Georgie.

He was not on my mind when some momo
stepped out from a doorway on Atwells Ave.
and said, Hey, Carmine, can you lend me a buck?

Except he didn't say Carmine. He said man.

His skin was yellow. His front teeth gone.
The veins in his arms purple tangles.

I said, Holy shit, Georgie! Oh, Christ....

Except I didn't say that to him.
I said Yeah sure, Georgie.
And I handed him a dollar bill.

Except I didn't say Georgie.