Washington Irving

Poor Rip was asleep when townsfolk told him

Derek Jeter had retired. Poor Rip

clutched his gun, didn’t hear how each home run

ever hit was hit in his honour.

Every scratch in every game-day scorecard

refers to Rip Van Winkle, even when

I wrote in the margin, ‘I have to go back

to teaching. Dreams don’t just crush themselves.’

The falling maples leaves, Dame Van Winkle,

bring us both back to freshman year, never

dressed quite right for the coming cold, never

stopping to tour the nutmeg factory.

I hated Halloween and Hallowinkle.

I once sang, ‘You’ll be a hot dog woman,

baby, till you find a ham,’ ready to play,

dressed up as a pudgy Leslie Fiedler.