by Tom Montag


I was alone on the bench. I am not
Alone now. The old man with his story
Has come to me. He tells about his days

In baseball, playing semi-pro in Nine-
Teen Hundred and Twenty Eight. Oh how he
Loved it. He loved the smell of his glove, sting

Of the bat, fetching smile of that pretty
Miss in the stands watching him - who became

His wife, who has since passed on. But we are

Talking baseball. His eyes water, looking
Back so far, so long; his hands, they tremble,

Remembering. He swells with joy. We share
A silence that resonates. Hey batta
Batta. And then he is gone, direct as

Lightning, like a young man racing to beat
Out a bunt. Between here and where he has
been - wind and dust or a shadow, passing.

Previously published in PAGE FIVE.