The governor has blood cancer
and looks like Lex Luthor
and just busted balls out in the county
for its schools not having enough air conditioning
and Baltimore’s on pace to murder
pieces of itself at least 300 times this year.
Lex doesn’t peep.
Last night in class when Hemingway’s inventions
rowed boats over to save one Indian
by C-section with a jackknife,
then kill another by dismissal, my students,
whose aunts and cousins and brothers and mothers
still have Sandtown-Winchester addresses,
taught me to distrust any figurative visitor
that can row a boat better than the literal locals.
My Westside students, when discussing masculinity,
Hemingway’s masculinity, think we’re a nation of pussies
and Hemingway’s story’s father-doctor would agree.
But father-doctor, all bootstraps and blue matter at 5 a.m.,
gathers tackle and drives southwest about 5 miles
from his home in the governor’s county
down Dulaney Valley Road to cast a clear line
into Loch Raven from the bridge.