High in the right field stands, chaired
with wheels, knowing he can never, will never,
feel the grass beneath his feet, never feel
the chalk lines go like clouds underfoot,
never face a foreign pitcher, or dare a steal,
a boy of bright eyes and sad legs lets go:
he tries to measure the speed a fastball has,
the gyrations of forkball or dipsy-doodler.
Only when he feels his father’s tears does
he smile, but the scoreboard never shows it,
or the box score in the next paper, but one man
remembers, two rows back, three seats over,