for John Limon

The game of baseball is not a metaphor



and I know it’s not really life.



The chalky green diamond, the lovely



dusty brown lanes I see from airplanes



multiplying around the cities



are only neat playing fields.



Their structure is not the frame



of history carved out of forest,



that is not what I see on my ascent.







And down in the stadium,



the veteran catcher guiding the young



pitcher through the innings, the line



of concentration between them,



that delicate filament is not



like the way you are helping me,



only it reminds me when I strain



for analogies, the way a rookie strains



for perfection, and the veteran,



in his wisdom, seems to promise it,



it glows from his upheld glove,







and the man in front of me



in the grandstand, drinking banana



daiquiris from a thermos,



continuing through a whole dinner



to the aromatic cigar even as our team



is shut out, nearly hitless, he is



not like the farmer that Auden speaks



of in Breughel’s Icarus,



or the four inevitable woman-hating



drunkards, yelling, hugging



each other and moving up and down



continuously for more beer







and the young wife trying to understand



what a full count could be



to please her husband happy in



his old dreams, or the little boy



in the Yankees cap already nodding



off to sleep against his father,



program and popcorn memories



sliding into the future,



and the old woman from Lincoln, Maine,



screaming at the Yankee slugger



with wounded knees to break his leg







this is not a microcosm,



not even a slice of life







and the terrible slumps,



when the greatest hitter mysteriously



goes hitless for weeks, or



the pitcher’s stuff is all junk



who threw like a magician all last month,



or the days when our guys look



like Sennett cops, slipping, bumping



each other, then suddenly, the play



that wasn’t humanly possible, the Kid



we know isn’t ready for the big leagues,



leaps into the air to catch a ball



that should have gone downtown,



and coming off the field is hugged



and bottom-slapped by the sudden



sorcerers, the winning team







the question of what makes a man



slump when his form, his eye,



his power aren’t to blame, this isn’t



like the bad luck that hounds us,



and his frustration in the games



not like our deep rage



for disappointing ourselves







the ball park is an artifact,



manicured, safe, “scene in an Easter egg”,



and the order of the ball game,



the firm structure with the mystery



of accidents always contained,



not the wild field we wander in,



where I’m trying to recite the rules,



to repeat the statistics of the game,



and the wind keeps carrying my words away





