slow pitch wiffleball

an organized multicultural event

where everybodys looking silently straight ahead

no eye contact

not yet

this initial stand off with

revved up Chevys parked in the dirt,

tough built guys

some with curly hair

some with tattoos fading

guarding their women

then the firemen arrive

along with the police,

Vietnam Vets,

the enlisted ones,

24 blond guys on this team,

flaunting and sensing each other’s pelvic extensions

grinning at each other

hungry lions before the feast

bare white teeth

irreverently discussing the groundrules,

white foul lines,

Anglo Sunday morning church holiness,

and white me,

silent all morning,

nervous with racial guilt,

wondering whether this is Harlem in Bisbee ’66 revisited,

let’s just play already, goddammit,

throw a runner out from third base

what an arm!

the action is all there is

what we came here for,

hit a line drive like ol times for some shotgun tattoo lover,

get spiked

bleeding from my knee

sneeze in the Paterson grass

my red eyes and allergies overflowing,

for I am invisible here on this ballfield

I just am no different than these guys

except being colorless

cause when I grip a 31 oz bat

stick some Juicy Fruit in my mouth

and step up to the plate

it’s time to play ball!

(send this poem to Larry Dobie last seen parked somewhere on Flatbush Ave near the Hood)

9/7/80

Warren Park, Bisbee