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.
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Catholic Boys: Illinois: 1993
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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.