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Updated on March 20, 2015

In this picture the crowd is distracted--

Partly by where you're going to throw the ball,

And partly with you--

Yes, you alone,

Eighty years old and holding the ball--

Tri-corn hat swept back straight and tight,

Heavy coat buttoned against the wind,

Limp-wristed, ball drooping, holding on tight,

Tired eyes gazing beyond the guise of time,

Amid those that behold you--

The dago concession boy,

Caught mid-transaction

With the bunny-eyed girl seated hard right--

Eyes open, mouth wide, in delight,

With the rich, grainy, alcoholic, type,

Seated hard left,

Just out of sight.

And it's a new season,

The bottom of the ninth,

For you,

Nineteen-seventy something

That night...


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