my grandmother
was Polish and spoke English so-so
she used to have the radio on
or grandpa did, as she ironed
she told my mom that she felt bad
for the baseball player called “string”
because she always heard the announcer
say “the string is out”, “the string is out”
this is what announcers said
during the game when it was
a 3 ball, 2 strike full count on a batter,
one pitch remaining for him
my cousins son is in his fifties
his grandfather was my dad’s brother
i knew his grandfather and his great grandfather
also that little old woman who was his
great. great grandmother, oh my . . .
time passes like a soaring bird,
sailing overhead deep,
like a long fly ball heading over the wall
somewhere it’s the bottom of the ninth,
the big game nearing completion,
tap the bat against your shoes,
knock the mud off your cleats
tuck the bill of your hat down to cover the sun,
two out, bases loaded, the full count is on,
one pitch remaining,
the string is out
when it comes down the pipe
go for it,
knock that puppy
over the wall
Thursday, March 18, 2010
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2 comments:
Hi jack, I've read and re-read .. enjoyed this one .. speaks to my heart.
Bill
This is a great poem!
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