when listening to notables of stage and screen, or

famous writers of fiction far from the hot stove leagues,

touting the “beauty of the game”,–– the subtlety in its movement,

the silence in its complex communication, the heartbeat in its hesitant lead

off the bag at third, the tense isolation of the outfield, the game's last stand,
all as beautiful as, well.. something hard to define, but –– consider this:

-the lengths to which we’d go-

it wasn't hard to resist playing the game with Hank Casper’s new baseball,

the lathe-rubbed jewel from the mines of Diamond Company.

a D1-low seam is what it was;

cadmium red, its stitches strained across the cowhide cloak.

the chosen one was game-tested, more than once retrieved

from the sewers or cajoled from the slop at the playful jaws of intruding dogs.

this time, it’s caught in the wire mesh of the backstop, wedged there
from a looping foul ball, a good ten feet above Tom Curry’s head.

(I’m exhibiting the imagery of a small band of ballplayers

gathered behind home plate looking up to the wire of the backstop)

sure, we needed a climber, but the mesh was unstable

and besides, we'd been warned not to climb the wire by Ray Parrese,
a pal of my father, the boss of all things prescribed by

the "Columbus Park Rules and Regulations Committee". 

then this:

Casper’s new bauble in leather waiting in the wings

too pretty for the rough of the game, not a venial

sin pinpricking its virgin hide,–– not even a hint of ash,
but the weathered old-timer's wedged in a purgatory of chicken wire.

“why the hell don’t you guys throw something up there

to knock it down”?

so Henry Casper threw his new beauty upward

and on the first try, knocked the old ball free from the wire's trap

and that’s the baseball we used to play the game that day;

Henry’s brand new Diamond D1-low seam.

you see, when it knocked the battered old ball down,

well,–– it was a baptism of sorts, the welcoming to the game.
you know, something beautiful for the beauty of it all.

so that's my story.

so let ‘em talk about that.

-the third in a series of love stories devoted to early baseballs-

this is the third story.

it’s the one about the sewer

squatting at the gutter in front of my house; the house
across the street from the corner ending the right field line.

there, the sewer waits in perpetual attitude, inhaling
baseballs run afoul, its breath exhales of everything

once belonging to something from someplace else.

our neighborhood law states intently that

this sewer will never hold our baseballs within its putrid belly.

it wasn’t always, but sometimes I was called upon

to crawl inside its granite-heavy maw into

the stagnant drench of the sewer squatting at the foot of my house.

grab hold the backside of my withered belt, my young brothers.

hold tight to the riven denim at its cuffs and the looping

knots who bind the hightop sneaks.

hold fast to this slender body, loved-ones, for I’m going in.

               -The immediate family-

               Incidental Preamble:

               I grew to enjoy my standing in the classification of “Immediate Family”.

               It meant I could push my way through the crowds of well-wishers
               and walk directly into the Intensive Care Unit.

               Of my early immediate family,

               my young sister, three

               years my elder, seemed

               blessed with talent.

               I say “blessed” without knowing

               who it was or what it was

               which blessed her with talent.

               Call it the Holy Ghost.
               Call it her tenacity.

               Call it a forced critique from the morning
               egg man delivering farm-fresh, still warm,
               dotted with chickenshit and little strands of hay
               as he stood at attention at the screen door of the kitchen.

               (she’d tap for anyone at first notice)

               or it might have been the result of
               enthusiastic reviews from Uncle Joe, a cool guy

               who smoked kingsize menthol and had a calling...

               Talent is defined here as: dancing,

               singing,–– performing on short notice 

               for relatives, parental friends, or
               the Encyclopedia salesman, as my little brother,
               three years my younger, watched with curiosity

               from the wings of the hallway

               while I hid under the bed until the coast was clear.

               As for me, my parents did make an effort

               by shelling-out for saxophone lessons

               taught by a neighborhood nightclub Jazzman.

               I don’t recall my little brother

               taking lessons of any kind, but

               years later I drew a penciled portrait of Joe,
               my father's younger brother, from memory
               long after he died (too young in life) by "undisclosed means".
               the local paper's obituary section wasn't ready with an exposé

               for the likes of Uncle Joe.

               The belching saxophone was short-lived, too,
               but as things were I had no complaints.

               Most of my cousins were forced into taking
               accordion lessons.

               Quequechan / early in the fifties

-Almost zero / a Requiem for old Miss Sykes-

Almost zero.

Not the outside temperature in winter, although

Here in Paradisum it wouldn’t have been an outlier.

December classroom’s hot with steam.

The third aisle in from the door is sweltering

By the grace of Bernadette Baker.

My head will come to rest upon my forearms, draped

Across the lid of the desk regardless of season.

Who knew the limits in the span-of-attention as I did?

Nobody, but for the grievance of old Miss Sykes.

The report cards delivered by my hand pushed my parents
To the precipice of exhaustion.

It’s probably 1955 and "Almost zero" confronts them

Like a blast of wind from the throat of Carol.

Backyard tree's uprooted in September 
And roadways are flooded, knee-deep.

They asked: “Is Rebop in the house”?

They feared the loss of reception and the pains of Hell.

Widows were stripped in masking-tape to ward-off the wind

Like old testament lamb's blood brushed at the doors
Upon the edict of Pharaoh.

Then the cursive scrawl in blood-red: “Almost zero”
Writ by the withered hand of old Miss Sykes adds to the pile

Of frantic goings on confronting me and my earliest house.

Finito

-including certain observations-

1.

I am not now, nor have I ever been a professional painter of pictures.

having said that, I have painted a few pictures in my time,

and some were actually palatable to the naked eye.

a few might remember: “Novitiate at her Bath” called:

the “Nun Painting” by its admirers, whereabouts unknown,

now lost to history.

also, there's the little Chardin wannabe: “Items on a Table”

immortalized in a poem addressed to long past love, Isabella Howsenauer

and is assumed to be in Howsenauer's possession, and considered lost.

2.

I want it.
I want the lost little Chardin wannabe.

I want the lost “Nun” painting, too.

I want all my lost stuff.

I want to gather all of it in my arms

like Vincent was gathered by Paul,

like Jesus gathered the other Paul,

like John gathered his own Paul while skiffling at the Woolton fête.

I want to sleep with my stuff lost to the aether,

to smell the crooked paint of it,–– unfurl
the rolls with their hairline cracks at my loins.

they're every woman I’ve ever known or dreamed of,

living or dead;

It'd be like sleeping inside the Pleiades, all seven of them;

young and burning with a new kind of fire.

3.

Ah! but for the stars, I’m too old for any of it, and don't you see?

I'm soon to be lost to history myself, don't you know.