The beach made up
of sharp stones
reminds me
of a field
where I learned
baseball.
A bad hop
was always apt
to surprise
but not like this
topless beauty
kneeling to tend
her daughter's braid.
The child's blonde hair
fails to camouflage
the wedding band
that is as imposing
as a World Series ring.
I'm a young sailor
on liberty in France.
I'm used to sandy New England
shores and beach breasts
that are mysteries.
Standing, she leans
over to inspect her work.
Legs apart,
hands resting on knees,
she's a base runner
who just edged off first.
I gather lucky stones
and, skipping them off
the Mediterranean Sea,
I am a pitcher
checking her lead
when our eyes meet.
Line Drives
Foreword by Elinor Nauen
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