The Millennial Pedestrian

Stone

John Stone, chunky little fastballer, delivered
his best heat and I sent the ball crashing through the sky
above the stunned left-fielder’s head
as he back-pedaled toward the road.
The ball bounced there, high off the pavement,
into deep grass as I rounded third and saw
as time at last resumed its pace,
our cleanup batter cross the plate ahead of me,
the tying run, and turn to wave me in.

Mid-May sunshine greening an Eisenhower day –
then the visceral and startling connection of bat and ball,
of boy and man, the wild oblivion in which I sped
from base to base, the frenzy at the plate — childhood’s end.
Now I am a man, tomorrow I will fall in love,
on Sunday shave, get an education, marry,
be a father once, twice, three then four times,
earn, buy houses, cars; fret; forget the names
and now the faces of the boys who lifted me at home.

More then fifty years ago this spring
I begged the coach to let me hit.
I still can see the ball, rising over short,
feel myself condense into a powerful new being.
But condensation, dew on lawns, is morning’s jewel.
By noon, it clings in shadow to the underside
of blades and then is gone
and dry grass rustles in the sun.

What else do I remember? Most of all
a shining sense of possibility,
that homers did not need to be for others only.
And though I didn’t think in metaphors at twelve,
I understood that “homer” was a word
with many meanings. I never thought of death, of course.
At twelve, one doesn’t, much. Now I see
the homer arcing toward the far-off road,
a whitish wounded bird
falling on the black macadam,
rolling toward the dark green thicket,
someone I can’t remember in pursuit.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 3rd, 2006.
It's part of the New Poems category.
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