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Poems

“One Summer”

We were twelve in ‘61

and counted Roger’s homers

as he chased the ghost of Babe

from a past we couldn’t know.

So, we copied the blur of his swing

 

and stenciled “9” onto our shirts

believing heroes deserved

the praise of imitation.

And we played on the grit of lots

in the beating sun baking us wet

until the roar of thunder

would crack like a bat

and call our only game in town.

We’d wait it out on porches

spinning Chubby Checker’s records,

the vinyled gloss twisting

forty-five times a minute

in a Westinghouse hi-fi,

two years away from Dallas

and the shots that gave us

our own past to yearn for.

Summer was time between nuns

and their world of black and white

so we’d decide for ourselves

what was fair and what was foul.

Each morning brought orange juice

and the snap of corn flakes,

fuel for our game that passed

without attention to time,

the one we played when the sun

was gold enough to light the lives

of boys believing in summer

and the rich green of diamonds

where they could copy men

and wait for their chance.

 

                     published in The Twin Bill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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