Weight back, son, back -- now! Pivoting in air, I felt wood crack
and sent one screaming over first. My three mates whirled
around the sacks and fierce joy burst past, or through...
First inning, Father. Bags full. And all for you,
who, miles off, listened hard beneath a static sky.
The radio crowed: "Grand slam!" -- and "You'll be next to die."
Once, you showed me something about the stance,
how the weight came through, and how the dance
of foot in dirt was beautiful and clean --
I don't recall the point -- not now, I mean.
But I still can see your hands, the coiled way
they worked the wood, and how your wrists turned,
mirrored snakes, twin roots, and how the simple day
was shaken by... what was it?... by all I'd never learned?
Your fingers were stubby, grimed with grease, coarse hairs
tangled over bulge of blood. My youth still fares
its way from lost to lost. I move my dancing feet
to match the steps you traced with yours -- and life's complete.
Yet as I gape and gasp in desperate dark,
a voice returns, riding warm winds from that park.
These forty years, I've been turning into you.
I have your hands, your heart -- and these will fail me too.