Throw It Back

Pepitone, Banks and Santo,

not many negroes graced the pines.

Chew

Spit.

Irish, Poles, Italians

Rush through the gates.

Cowhide mitts

stuffed with youthful fingers,

dreaming of a fly their way.

Blistered red dogs

steaming in the sun

and

pennants rippling.

The lake wind,

skipping off the faces

of Addison,

swept into center field.

“Peanuts here!”

Tenements beyond left field

holds freeloading fands,

watching ground balls

tear through the infield dirt—

onto real grass.

Apparitions of stitched-leather drives

into the August blue.

“Throw it back!”