Just before he died,
when Tim had come back
from his dream of dying
to tell us it was all
just bush league, Little League,
why the hell did I waste
time fearing it? I thought
of that moment when the ball's
hit and you start in and,
uh-oh, should have gone
the other way and all
you can do is watch it arc
over your clumsy scramble
to reverse direction—
too late too late, why
hurry, and anyway
isn't the lifelong
fought-against sensation
of defeat now nearly
irresistible, a sweetly
growing spaciousness
in which the celebration
at home plate shrinks
to nothing, and the cut-
off man, no longer shouting,
or waving, turns away
to kick his glove in tiny
dust clouds down the infield?
No comments:
Post a Comment