Conjunction
In the corner near where
Highway 10 and 321 cross,
Beside the park the city
Of Newton built,
The Henry and Jacob Forks
Meet in a sandy-bottomed
Green pastured paradise
To form the South Fork
Of the Catawba River.
After every winding turn
You can think of,
After passing abandoned mills,
Farms and parks,
Some people say that
The Henry becomes
A part of the Jacob,
Others who believe
That the Henry somehow
Gets there first every day,
See it all the other way.
https://redhawkpublications.com/George-Mitrovichs-BASEBALL-NOTES-p485330518
Seventeen years of baseball seasons missed—
How else to measure Coach Dad’s demise?
And tonight, all snugly retired, in comfort
That was at least part his doing,
Feeling calm after a thankful Thanksgiving,
I order my granddaughter her first ball glove.
Not the Dadly tradition sizing of the leather
At the downtown Sears Roebuck,
Or later at the Hickory Sporting Goods Store,
So excited that you wear it on your hand
Right out of the store.
A process on a computer
I could never explain
The way he explained the game
One batting practice pitch,
One infield grounder at a time.
Field of dreams, field of dreams.
Larry’s Anecdotal Evidence
I had seen it
Fat crawling through pine needles
Where we’d cut a trail
With our dirt bikes
From the bluff
Over through the fire woods
To the big trail we took
Down to the neighbor’s carp pond.
I got the machete
From the cabinet
Under the sink.
Why Momma kept it
I’ll never know.
Never saw her get it out
Though Pop mightta known otherwise.
I carried it behind me
Across the seat
Wrapped in a kitchen towel.
The fat fucker was there waiting
Coiled next to an empty shine jug
Burton left
Against an oak stump.
I parked and stobbed the kickstand
While the copperhead circled
Through the leaves and storm scatter
Raising his head to strike.
He was beautiful
Perfect earth toned.
I halved him
With a clean stroke
The machete stuck in the black dirt.
The front half gushing blood like a hose
Struck at my ankle boot
And I lopped the head off.
I watched the severed head
The mouth opening and closing
Till I stomped it.
Then I wiped the machete off
Stood it in the dirt
And slung the towel
Out next to the shine jug.
I cranked my bike
And revved it
Till the expansion chamber rattled.
The day was sweet and raw.
I felt good, ready to ride.
Hoe Boy Considers Alabama Pitts
White privilege revealed
in Albany even as Judge Landis
ruled in a felon's favor,
the black shackles tightened
another notch knowing,
law-abiding and great
was not good enough
for this man's baseball--
what they wrote in
negro Philadelphia,
gray Pittsburgh,
Babe's Baltimore
while Dizzy brayed
across the river, and
somewhere in North
Carolina, the batboy
dressed as Satch
struck out
a whole town.
The
tumblers are turning.
I can
feel it in my belly.
The
dawn is breaking
Over
the pine tops.
The
pure wall of night
Has
slowly lifted.
The
old combination
Is
clicking right into
Morning’s
perfect space.
Not
to be caught,
The
night animals scurry.
The
copperhead slips
Through
the granite crack
Back
to the ball of vipers.
The
tumblers are locked.
The
day is in us again.
Channeling
Sometimes I wear my dad’s last hat
When I’m mowing the grass,
A cream colored fedora I bought
Him for a late life birthday.
He wore it on preacher visits
At the hospital and the rest home
Where he was the chaplain.
Tending old souls, it gave
Him a serious look.
On my much smaller head
It sinks to my ears
Fending off tree limbs,
Devilish grape vines reaching
From iron poles,
No rescued souls,
No parables told.
Seventeen years, Dad’s memories grown slim,
Wearing his lid helps me remember him.
