By Michael H. Brownstein
The bases not loaded, but could be,
our best hitter coming to bat,
not fourth in the lineup I don’t know why
but seventh, and today two men on
and we can do this – the sun a lemon rind,
the clouds a willow wisp of breeze –
the perfect day for a perfect play
and now he swings, connects,
and I am off as soon as I hear the crack,
but the shortstop snags it,
his throw to first unerring,
and now the throw to second base
quick as light, but I feel quicker,
hear the ball smack his mitt,
the dust rise from his move to the base,
the sound of me slipping under his reach,
and then a billow of everything,
cheers and chaos, dirt and debris
and the umpire shouting way too loud:
You’rrre ooout! But it’s still a perfect day.
| Copyright © 2020 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
Michael, I’m amazed that, amongst all of your other current concerns, you can detach yourself sufficiently to write a light-hearted poem like this, which I assume is current and not from a distant archive.
ReplyDeleteOf course, the poem’s title subtly alludes to our time’s definitely not being one of light-hearted games. So...I amend my comment: the poem isn’t light-hearted at all, but deeply ironic. Unless it was written years ago (as light-hearted) and retitled now in a lower register?
DeleteLast year the local baseball field was under water. Didn't think it would recover. Now it's up and running--and my town is in the middle of a Covid 19 nightmare--I believe we broke the county record two days in a row.
ReplyDeleteOh, for another chance to slide into a base--but this time get called safe.
Baseball with face masks and no audience. I can't think it feels the same.
That feeling. For me it was playing ball in the street, '500' we called it, catch a fly ball 100 points, a grounder 50, get to 500 first you're at bat. Something I could excel at in the dominance-powered, testosterone-drenched competitiveness of boys slowly turning into men, somewhat like American Werewolf in London in slow motion, "Bad Moon Risin'" by Creedence playing in the background. I know I will never have that feeling again; I sincerely hope, Michael, that YOU do!
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