Jim Murphy
Routes to Kansas City Star
Roanoke Park to Rosedale Park, a few winding blocks
over to the angular disappointments of State Line Road,
none of it far from a garage studio where Thomas Hart Benton
collapsed and died at work, amid his spattered dropcloths
with a Royals game crackling on the tin-foiled Radio King.
Sky of the plains tumbles over the bluffs’ first knobs of green --
over Shawnee Mission, the blanks of Kansas City stockyards,
the three-forked river -- two names that curl into a strain
of history like twin copperheads. Down in the sucking roots
botanic snarls break enormous chips off sidewalks
into dangled cement planes. Almost the patched embroidery
of gray flannel uniforms, the Kansas City Monarchs
blazing through the top of the ninth, infield weeded
and full of gravel for shows of genius in leather-bare cleats --
around the diamond in twelve seconds, a six-hundred foot home run,
two winning games pitched in an afternoon, whatever mystery
role was needed at the time -- all ways to manage scenes --
the cue from Satchel Paige, If a man can beat you, walk him.
In the neighborhood of 18th and Vine, bad news
pours through almost every door, social club to barbershop
to clapboard church -- Can’t pacify this mind of mine.
Fogs of the "K.C. Blues" can’t be kept so simple and free
this late in the dissipating day. F-stop, f-hole, twin-coiled
humbucking pickups -- imagery pressed into coffee-table books
and scored in microgrooves. A Heavyweight Championship
of Blues Revue tacked to the lampposts and glued to the sides
of vacant buildings. Games in bottle gardens at midday.
I’m bumping around the block, same Carl Perkins number
running through my head -- sitting here wondering
would a matchbox hold all my clothes. The laugh-while-you-can
catch of that is aimed in this direction. The sod country’s
mud runs high through Lawrence on its Biblical approach.
The street’s clouded over by the time I shamble up and talk
to the vendor. I’m in my role. He’s in his. Hey buddy,
how much? Two bits, pal. The orchestrated casting off
of boredom -- the heavy sky, the late game, the mayor’s race.
A block down thinking What’d I want with this?
Classifieds. "Marketplace." A make-do hat for the rain.
from The Memphis Sun © 2000 Kent State University Press.