Two farm teams,
spare weathered boys,
shook hands, took their positions
on a sandy diamond.
Heatwaves shimmered off homeplate.
A dust devil twisted the red dirt
as a lank third baseman fielded a grounder,
his threadbare cap
pulled low on his tanned brow.
At the retire of the side,
a tall brunette in a diaphanous yellow dress
waved from the bleachers,
tossed back her lambent hair.
The boy regarded
the nip of her trim waist,
the fresh tint of her cheeks.
He gripped the bat, stepped up to the plate,
glanced toward the crowd
in time to see the turn of her heel
as she climbed into a shiny Model A.
His buddies at the gas station
knew her name.
She was a good Baptist girl.
He smiled,
knowing where he’d be
next Sunday.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME