-a moment long, long ago comes all too clearly into view-

a baseball poem:

my space of earth is left field;

a baseball game between us and them.

us, being who we are...

the eclectic, hand-chatty Italians

playing on our field. a park.
them, being the swift, indelible Portuguese

who travelled to us from their distance planet

three small-city blocks to the west.

a line drive on a frozen rope I thought could be reached

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 runner 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.

damn Portuguese!

my spikes instinctively brush the damp of the left

field grass leveling the divot.

my fist hard-knocks the cowhide pocket just once.

it's an empty pocket and still the limelight glistened.