-the Hall-of-Famer-

Herein I'll state my case for

enshrinement to the Hall of Fame,

the Baseball Hall of Fame because

in the summer of 1953 I made that catch in left;

runners on second and third, two outs in the ninth,

the line-drive on a frozen rope cracking the atmosphere

off the lightning bat of Johnny Santos fast-baller out of

St. Anthony of Padua parish,— my sneakers

on the run toward the gap closing-in on the fence,

the chain-link fence neck–high and brutal;

my young, skinny right arm extending as high as can be

expected of muscle and bone, toe-tips brushing the blades of grass

bending in the wake, the glove wide-open like the brown-skinned

nestling screaming for a taste of the worm,

the stinging  slap of the baseball nabbed in the skin-thin pocket

the rawhide knotted, Rawlings five-finger closing-in, closing-in,

squeezing the life out of it.

Columbus Park / 1953