Today you know how that Italian felt, sighting
the smudge on the horizon he called America,
land of the free, home of the Braves: This kid
can't miss. Four fingers of bourbon in a motel
glass, a cigar outside, a toast to your
discovery. Pretend you don't hear
the honeymooners in the next room playing
ball between the sheets, Mel Allen yelling
going, going, gone. Another drink and another now
you're down to where the bottle demands
you examine your life, consider the score.
Ten thousand innings accounted for
amounting to what? Two ex-wives,
a sister you never see, the rumor of a son
someplace in Texas, a winter ache in your
back, suitcase crammed with a mess
of memories. The past's a gray ribbon
unraveling in your rear view mirror,
each mile sadder than the last, so
here's to the future. Two shots left,
a shortstop to scout tomorrow. Enough.
The moon's a curve ball tonight,
got an arc like you've never seen
might fan Orion on three strikes.
Sort of Gone
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