Babe Ruth in baggy pants
and compression stockings
at the plate, post mammoth blast,
looking skyward, along with the
catcher and the umpire,
admiring the launch
of a small white missile
into outer space;
his bat, still pointing to
the heavens, a lightning rod
drawing down thunder;
And in his lumbering victory
trot, he touches the tip of his cap,
salutations to the crowd,
in the house Ruth built,
salutations above, to the source
and strength of all living flesh,
salutations, all the way to the
grave, for there is spring
in the dust that blows across
the empty fields, and is swept
away, sparkling, in the eternal sun.