In the Shreve High football stadium, I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville, And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood, And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel, Dreaming of heroes. All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home. Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love. Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.
I first read this poem in my Intro to English class during my freshman year at MSU and I instantly felt a connection to it. My high school has a long tradition of winning the state finals in Division 8 (200ish students in the whole high school) and I have always said that women there are treated like second class citizens. Almost every line describes Mendon. Anyway, I have loved it since and I just realized there are only 4 more days left in October so I should put it up here for the sake of timeliness :)
This poem has an eerie likeness to Central Montcalm days, too. Small town Friday nights... nothing like them in the world.
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