Catholic Boys: Illinois: 1993
Those Catholic boys of the Upper Midwest,
Blue-eyed, blonde-haired, Polish or Irish blood,
With names like Janacek and Garrity,
Boys who somehow hold themselves together
At Mass, hungover from the kegger where
They jumped over the snarling bonfire
Fed by cardboard from 30-racks of beast,
Boys who take the host from the very priest
Who baptized them, then a step to the left
The way they use a screen at the top of the key,
Crossing themselves like they’re crossing
Someone over, then return to the same pew
Their family has been sitting in since
They came over from Poland or Ireland,
Boys closest of all to their grandmothers
Who alone understand them, big women
With bad hips who were beauties in their day,
Who alone could control their grandfathers,
Dead of drink, boys whose fathers are lawyers
Who win some and lose some, or mechanics
Who, they brag, can tell what’s wrong with a car
By putting their ear to the hood when
The engine’s off, boys who, like all boys,
Wanted to grow up to be astronauts,
But actually could have been, what with their
Clear eyes, boys who break through the hymen
Of the paper ring the cheerleaders hold,
Painted with a grimacing blue bulldog
One of their artistic brothers, not one
Of these boys, painted with his tongue
Sticking out, boys who hardly seem to breathe
Hard on the courtly court, who hardly sweat,
Sinking arcing threes off one dribble before
Getting back on defense, boys who gamble
Their fathers’ money on how many points
Jordan is going to put up tonight,
Boys who know Chicago, who, upon
Emerging from Union Station, turn right
Towards the lake, boys who’ll have to suffer through
Hard talks at the kitchen table because
They got a girl pregnant, and although
It’s morally abhorrent, their parents say,
They’ll make an exception this time, because
These are the boys God made the world for.
