a short poem recounting the first step in the evolution of a baseball cap

in May, a Saturday morning of anticipation prior to choosing-up,

a black kid came to the park unknown and unannounced while visiting relations

at 1021 Bedford Street, third floor, where whacky "Nicky Nazone" once lived;

a right fielder like Jackie Jensen, fast like Gene Stevens, black like

"Pumpsie" Green, and the brim of his cap was flat as a pancake, flat

like the Ethiopian lip fashioned that way hellbent for romance;

not the slightest hint of historic, caucasian aftermarket arching.

the following day, he slipped out of Fall River to parks unknown.

mind you. this happened in May of 1953. ––– and I was there.