by Sandra Marchetti
Down the first base line,
I saw your body stretched
like an A on the mound,
your right arm a slash
line across it.
A spring training game
in mid-March, you only
threw a few innings, but I
could tell your pitches
were up without replay.
In the crowd I hid among
the retirees. White men
with their white hair
in their white shirts
holding scorecards and I
thought about asking,
What is it like for your team
to leave you, as this team
will leave in a couple
of weeks for a city at work
that no longer stops on weekday
afternoons for baseball?
*Previously published in Louisiana Literature.
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