_____________________________
The
Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
By
Richard Hugo
The
dim boy claps because the others clap.
The
polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn't
it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
One
whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union
Station, '46, sweating through last night.
The
dim boy claps because the others clap.
Score,
5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn't
it wrong to be or not be spastic?
Isn't
it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
I'm
laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by
a savage father and I'm ashamed to look.
The
dim boy claps because the others clap.
The
score is always close, the rally always short.
I've
left more wreckage than a quake.
Isn't
it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
The
afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn't
it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to
stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked.
The
dim boy claps because the others clap.
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