an organized multicultural event
where everybodys looking silently straight ahead
this initial stand off with
revved up Chevys parked in the dirt,
24 blond guys on this team,
flaunting and sensing each other’s pelvic extensions
hungry lions before the feast
irreverently discussing the groundrules,
Anglo Sunday morning church holiness,
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
the action is all there is
hit a line drive like ol times for some shotgun tattoo lover,
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
cause when I grip a 31 oz bat
stick some Juicy Fruit in my mouth
(send this poem to Larry Dobie last seen parked somewhere on Flatbush Ave near the Hood)