The island boat sails
empty one way. For
years I told the kids
of our away games
against fed inmates,
the Native pitcher
with hand-carved knives
tattooed underside
his forearms, his stare
walleyed as search lights
when a kid sixteen
brushed him back. He eyed
me with unwieldy
daggers, safe behind
horizontal bars,
I squatted, signaled
for a curve. Bleacher
bums hooted, howled,
and bet cigarettes
on each pitch. One guy
yelled, He killed seven
guys, watch your back
at the plate. Hitters
joked about playing
the next game at our place.
We split the double
header, and ate lunch
At the big house.
Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine
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