

– 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…
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