-a moment some time ago comes all too clearly into view-

assigned to left field;

a baseball game

between us and them.
us, being who we are,

the eclectic, angry Italians,

playing in our house, a park.
them, being them, the swift,
fence-busting Portuguese, who
travelled here from the distance of their planet,
three small city blocks to the west.

a line drive, I thought

could be reached in the air, sank fast

and bounced in front of me.

It was a bad hop.

(“bad hop” is a universally accepted baseball term)
this one hit me in the face.

I'm stunned, briefly, but long enough

for the guy on second to reach home and

although it was unnecessary, he decided

to slide across the plate, adding another slap to my face.

all that was left to do was

lob the ball to the shortstop

as the runner trotted to his bench drawing

over-the-top adulation from his teammates.

my spikes instinctively brush the damp

of the left field grass leveling the divot.

my fist hard-knocks the cowhide pocket, once.

it's a clean pocket, and

after an early rain, the limelight glistened.