The Cleveland Indian are up
two to nothing, bottom of the eighth.
The Dutchman has his curveball tonight.
I can hear it snap off,
even on the car radio.
I am sitting half drunk
in the driveway, listening to game
in my pinstripes.
The women and children have gone to the house.
The new summer darkness counts the outs.
Somebody should drop
a cold mountain on the car
right now, bury me
in the driveway with the shutout.
I'd live a day or two
till the battery, the beer or
the game ran out.
My grown son Sean
is a second baseman
in the slow-pitch league.
He would be the one
to climb the mountain of my grave
and live with the puzzle
of the short series
playing against
the soles of his shoes.
Line Drives
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