Baseball Poem

BOB SHEPARD
Bill Lattanzi

Transmigratory birds -
Orioles, Jays, Cards -
In town one day, gone the next.
Our cities connect by rail by bus by train
By plane, by wire and less.
We move.
Born in the burbs, 90 miles from your
Calm, Bob Shepard:
"Now batting. The Centerfielder. Mickey Mantle."
And you were old then. Doing your crosswords,
Looking up at just the right moment, never
Missing a line. Your P.A. voice sitting
kindly between the squawk of the Scooter and
the Ol' Redhead, wised up, seen it all.

We migrate and grow by rail and plane and
PF Flyer - running faster, jumping higher -
Now we're minutes from Fenway, and
Sox fans, too. Proof that peace is possible;
It's all a game. And with my sons
We sit, ghost of my Dad and we and them and watch
Rootless and rooted, rooting,
And listen for you, Bob Shepard,
87 I think you are, still there,
In between clever McCarver and professional Buck.
Look up, Bob. Look up.
"Number 2. The shortstop. Derek Jeter. Jeter."
The game goes on.