– For Len Gasparini
I could have mumbled a poem at you
Easily yet the mornings bring a batter up
That knows little of what a true
Arm presses from pectoralis to wrist
Twisting ahead of a nervous bat
Quickly adjusting
But my eyes if you look know
Nothing
Like the sound that whips by my ear
My arm a clipping sailing cutter
No one hears
This is not poetry this is the manner
By which I begin and end
The poem yours homerun
Slammed back from a 90 foot risk
Laugh and hunker down Let jokes fly
Into a puddle over the centerfield wall
I will play
Into your bleacher howls.
