Johnny Yount, tough young writer,
tried and tried to swim underwater
the cove at Folger Street. He
arm-wrestled and won, hunted,
fished stark New England woods,
hiked the Carolina mountains, strode
through the best trout streams,
kicked in doors, but

I saw Howard Hunter, grey at 60-plus,
Dean of Arts and Sciences,
turn young Yount ass-over
with an Indian leg-throw and laugh to shreds
the Steadmans' hardwood floor.

Who could be bitter at such losing?

The heat of Howard's body
sometimes steamed his glasses, and
his spirit rose like hot earth plowed.

I never played poker with him,
but I'd guess he didn't win at it--too open,
intent to swallow life and friends.

Now, overthrown himself, he has left
their feet on wood and carpet, shuffling
under tables, flailing arcs in the air
their faces left to bluff and call.