They were on a break –
the three of them affecting the vernacular
of the men
who wrote for the paper they were hawking on
a street corner in St. Louis –
when a photographer
saw them laughing
between puffs.

Previously, they’d been
standing apart,
the tall one, holding court,
arms akimbo,
swearing his arm strength
should get him in the St. Louis Browns.

The others joshed, but, mainly, stayed reflective.
Frank Truesdale was from their town.
Their fathers, when not drinking, had
taught them all how to throw a ball.

When approached by the photographer,
they regarded him warily.
Was he a labor official? A truant officer?
The man asked if he might take their photo.
They sniffed. What do you give us?
The photographer went through his pockets,
handed them a dollar bill to divide
amongst themselves later.

They shrugged, then posed as
the photographer asked, each of them
with raised cigarette to mouth.
Years later,
one of them was shown the photo and
couldn’t remember what had happened
to his friends, only that they all
wanted to play for the Browns.