Issue 2: Paul Watsky

Losers' Blues

Around Lefty O'Doul's gate, once

the late innings start, there's usually a pair

of axmen competing

for spare change. First up,

his wheelchair wedged near escape gaps

in the fence bars, a clueless

honker's Happy Birthday Mary

Had a Little Lamb. I save my buck

for the Take Me Out

to the Ballgame virtuoso quietly

tinkering with his reed who can

empathize, like he sat beside me these

four fogdripping garbagetime

summers, some slob's chewed-up

peanut shells eddying

around our feet, knows that going

back to June I've witnessed six

straight butcheries, and tonight

before the stretch, shamble off

terminal from a quartet of Giants'

errors amped by their failure

to collect a second hit. This streetwise

Joshua blew his horn

during vanished years of hope, meaningful

seasons when hopefulness wasn't

monopolized by imbecile

true fans: down half-a-dozen,

two outs, bottom of the ninth, the 7-

hole batter whiffs but

on a passed ball reaches first-

and now these shirtless

screamers drifting among

empty seats decide

it's rally time. I drop

my Washington in his sax case. The music

guy and I exchange

looks, a shoulder bump. I walk,

he works-My Favorite Things. 

      --Paul Watsky

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