Baseball Poem

National Pastime

anonymous

Somewhere in the summer city...

someone's stoop... mid 50's,

when gods wore pinstripes,

and kids crammed their mouths

full of cloyingly sticky gum.

Got it... need it... want it.

Could have been anywhere, really.

Babe's House, Duke's Domain,

The Polo Grounds... Fenway Park.

The voices... Red Barber, Mel Allen,

statically beautiful.

Going... going.... gone!

Stark, white powder... highlighting

base lines, connecting the bags.

Irish-green outfields...

their warning tracks beckoning

that high, fly ball...

Holy cow... Oh, Momma, Touch 'em all!

Thurman and Roberto... gone too soon.

Mickey's left the reminiscing to Yogi.

Oh... for a ten-cent Coke, a shoe box,

crammed with flip-worn icons,

and somebody's mother...

calling him in to dinner.