-forever in place- an early self portrait.

It's a steady, but cautious three step lead from the bag at 3rd.

the slender torso of my body drops to the distance between

its bend at the knees.

forearms are positioned waist high, slightly away from the sides,

lifting forward at the elbow-joints for the balance I need.

the fingers of my hands are spread instinctively

and I'm swaying rhythmically, like a caged pachyderm.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

the pitcher, a southpaw from Ruggles Park,
a planet away from the sunlight, stares me down
from behind his right shoulder,–– peers beneath the slow,
convex arc at the brim of his Red Sox cap.

––his eyes are dark and cold; the eyes of the enduring,
relentless Portuguese.

I’ve cut the distance to 50 feet.

that’s all I’ll need.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

––the southpaw’s an icicle on the mound.

I'm off the bag,–– the tension tightens its grip.

he's waiting at the portal in the time of his choosing.

I'm off the bag waiting on his motion to follow through.

there are two people in the world.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

It’s an eternity, I tell you.

                         
Columbus Park, 1955?

                          1956?