Paul Hostovsky

Fame

I used to wonder what it felt like
to be David Mitnik
who had hair under his arms already
in the 6th grade. More specifically,
I wondered if one could feel the hair there—
if one had hair there—
or was it more like the hair on your head
which you can’t really feel
unless the sun is beating down on it or the rain
has soaked it through, and then, arguably,
it’s the rain or sun you feel and not the hair
per se. But the hair that grew
where the sun didn’t shine—now that
I knew nothing about at the famous
tender age of twelve and a half. I didn’t
want to be David Mitnik, I just wanted
something like an autograph—
what might rub off of his signature
armpit hair by being in his presence,
or on his team, or even in his chair in his absence.
I remember once when he was absent
I sat down at his desk—still warm, it seemed,
from so much precociousness—
and I imagined myself in his skin,
the hair crowding my seat like
a crowd in their seats, each individual
tendril standing up and cheering, doing the wave, rooting
for puberty! Which finally came, of course,
but it grew old fast. And it wasn’t long
before I ached to return to the obscure
vacant lots of childhood
where nothing much grew,
and the old games ruled,
and the smooth balls flew.