1. The Pitcher
I serve up a fastball sidearmed
A metaphor of quirk
Throwing the batter, and reader, off
Timing
The ball SLAMS into the catcher’s
Mitt, the deservedly abrupt end
To my verse
“I never prepared for the curve,
the oddity,”
The batter says,
Slumping on the bench like the spine of
An old book.

2. Catcher
My mother watched baseball
When she was younger
Bruce Benedict, of the Braves
Her favorite,
Who wore number 20 and caught
Niekro’s lively knuckler
That danced and jived its way to the plate

I’m far too skinny to be a catcher,
Even though I’ve got the arm
I show it off on the mound,
Wearing number 20
Getting the next call.

3. First Base
Our first baseman works
At an ice cream parlor
To practice his scoops, he says
And the name, Scoops, stuck

It’s hard to tell which is sweeter,
A single cone of peppermint, his treat,
Or the fact that it came as a celebration for blowing out
A team we weren’t supposed to beat

4. Second Base
This is where Jackie played,
When he broke the color barrier
The majors let a one-armed man play,
During the war,
Before they ever let blacks.
He played the game fast and without
a temper
Before Branch finally told him
“Go ahead, have at ’em”
And it killed him, prematurely
But not before he became a hero to all
You can still see Jackie in
Every stolen base,
Every infield hit,
Every moment of heroism.

5. Third base
The hot corner, where balls
Sail like missiles,
Hot to the touch
It’s best to just put your
Now burnt leather
Out in front of the ball
Smack it down,
And deliver a missile of your own.

6. Shortstop
I played shortstop before high school,
When everyone finally assimilated by bat speed
I had a steady glove and could make the throw across the diamond with ease
Which, for a 13-year-old, was quite
a feat
During practice, I’ll stay after
And take ground balls
From shortstop
My former office

7. Left Field
Left field is the loneliest of all
It’s not hard to see why little kids
Chase butterflies and pick at the grass
Now, our left fielder
Stares at girls in the stands,
Specifically the blonde wearing a Red Sox cap
Now, chasing girls and picking his
Brain to come up with a grand opening line he concerns himself
With all
But the ball
Headed his way.

8. Center Field
When I was in third grade
I went to my first college game –
Wichita State versus a team whose name I don’t recall
The center fielder, #20, stood out to me
The way a ballplayer stands out to a child
Is like a moth to a porch light
He topped out in minor league ball,
And I wonder if he still thinks
About that letter he received
From the angsty nine-year-old
Who wanted his autograph and was
Ignored.

9. Right Field
I wonder what poems were on Allie Caulfield’s left-handed glove
Written in green ink, so he had
Something to read
Between
Pitches
He read Shakespeare soliloquies
And Dickinson was stained on
there too
First chill – then stupor – then the
letting go
Was it sad poetry, or poetry relating
to the game?
Casey struck out,
And Mudville lost that day

Mostly I wonder, would Allie like
my poetry?
Or would he, like his brother, think I
was a phony?
I think he would have enjoyed it,
Because I tend to write about flowers.
They live as they died,
In vivid authenticity.