Turk Wendell

 

I’d like to go bow hunting with Turk Wendell
gut a moose and mount it in my living room,
but Turk’s not a man who likes company, so I’m told
-Turk with a necklace of fangs, out on the wild plains-
no lines to hop, no crouching-standing catchers to ponder
Just Turk in the jungle, collecting claws and teeth
 
I’d like to go Shark fishing with Turk Wendell
chum the waters, drop the line and gaff a leaping beast,
but Turk’s not a man who likes company, so I’m told
-Turk with a toothbrush, chasing Jaws around the deep-
no umpire rolling ball, no crosses on the mound
Just Turk and his tackle, on the high and rolling sea
 
I’d like to track a Polar Bear with Turk Wendell
snow-shoe our way across the frozen tundra,
but Turk’s not a man who likes company, so I’m told
-Turk with a bucket of ninety-nine knives-
no dugouts, just igloos, no rosin bags to pound,
Just Turk on the tundra, hunting 999 pounds
 
I’d like to go deer hunting with Turk Wendell
wear our gloves, load our guns and drop a twelve-point buck,
but Turk’s not a man who likes company, so I’m told
-Turk with just one glove, the other he tossed around-
no waving, brushing, pounding between each pitch
Just Turk in the forest, where the wild things live
 
 
copyright 2008, Frank Messina

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

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