Poem to Ted Simmons’s Hair

I’m telling you, Simmons, those days!
Those days when we finally began turning away …

Your tresses plunged like the
Bellwether economic indicators of the day.
Like the necklines of those
Who tottered for your notice.

We shan’t survive these times, said wartime leaders!
We shan’t survive Ted Simmons
and his unmade-bed hair!
Sacco him before he Vanzetties us!

You, you catcher and framer, hitter and blocker!
Michigan man! Prince of quick wrists!
Needler of Herzogs! Merchant of dinnertime perils!
Tilter at windmills!
Tilter of pinball machines!
Holy bewitcher!

We were something, you and I! But mostly you …
We’d have made your hair the president if we could’ve.
But if elected it will not serve.
Which is the thing about things
Sourced from the womb of a Cumulonimbus.

That hair flows like beaded doorways granting wide berth to tall men!
It flows like riverine sperm heaven-bent on impregnating the 1950s!

As reliably as liquor drunkens,
So too do you!

O, feral wilding!
O, Simba!