Quite impossible not to notice

when I go to water aerobics class

three times a week the untidy

condition of the underarms

of my fellow – I should say,

lady – aqua thrasherettes.

I’m usually the lone male

in the pool, ostracized to the deep

end I presume so I won’t notice

that the ladies haven’t shaved

their armpits this century,

but I’m not exactly blind yet.

Because most of them are larger

than me, I’m a bit reluctant

to inquire about this hirsuteness

they’ve adapted, perhaps on purpose -

a cult possibly or, like bralessness,

a current cause they’ve taken up.

Maybe it’s ecological, growing hair

instead of grass, or they figure

it’s sexy, as cave women undoubtedly

thought long ago.  Come to think of it,

it is kind of, well, sexy in a way,

if hairy septuagenarians turn you on.

(Published online in the June 2009 issue of The Orange Room Review)

Note:  Shortly after this poem was published and my social analysis was exposed, I was voted out of the pool by the offended Thrasherettes.  I now work out regularly in the weight room at the gym with all the hairy, sweaty men, some of whom apparently prefer to bathe only once a month.  I’m of a mind to suggest they try water aerobics, check out the Thrasherettes.

that Bert Sugar found me

punching the light bag

that lazy summer afternoon

after he’d returned from camp

with Sugar Ray or Joe Louis

himself, the other kids having

already left Police Boys’ Club

Number Ten where I was a

three-sport star at 105 pounds,

none of the sports involving

the clumsy boxing gloves Bert

begged me to put on to go a few

rounds with him, as he put it.

Poor Bert:  overweight, not a gifted

athlete, and too often picked on

by bullies like Pete Chaconas who

tried to drown him in the pool

at Central Junior High one day.

We danced around a bit, me tired

from a day’s worth of play,

when suddenly Bert landed two

light left jabs, stinging me,

then whoom, he crossed with

a vicious right that landed on

my cheek, lifted me in the air,

and sent a curl of snot flying

as I fell leadenly on my back.

I didn’t mind the vengeance so

evident in Bert’s smirk, but his

incessant counting – “…thirty-one,

thirty-two, thirty-three…” -

irritated the hell out of me.

(Published in the May 2008 online issue of Chantarelle’s Notebook)

Note:  This is one of my favorite memories, showing you can take things for granted (e.g., me, the gifted athlete) and then get punched silly.  I think Bert counted to a hundred before bending to help me back to my wobbly feet.  Bert Sugar, who is he?  Well, he went on to become an All-American rugby player at Michigan for starters, earned a J.D. degree, bought and elevated the stature of Ring Magazine for many years, all the while improving the image of boxing.  Regarded these days as the guru of boxing worldwide, he’s often seen and heard giving expert commentary on ESPN, sometimes also appearing in movies with pal Robert De Niro.  And oh, nearly forgot – he’s written nearly 100 (count ‘em out) highly successful books on various sporting activities.  We still talk by phone occasionally and he only confesses to counting up to 10 over my prone body there at the boys’ club in D.C.  I get woozy thinking about it.