Only time
I ever heard
my eyes were any good
was watching a full
count pitch
just miss—
I’d take my base
before the ball’d
been called. Lead-off man,
righty, my strike zone
small enough
little squeezed through,
the ball a camel
needling impossible
into heaven. Hell,
I’d steal second standing—
would wait till
they tried throwing
me out at first, my long lead
a taunt, then head
to second
without a thought.
In that game
called pickle,
or hotbox, I rarely
got caught. I ran
like only the sly,
four-eyed can—to get there
& to get away—
to reach somewhere
safe, where I
never thought
to stay.