by Mark Blaeuer
Our catcher lofts a magic souvenir
down the right field line. Stinging my
hands, his globe fashioned of antique horsehide
with (miniscule in sweet spot, India ink)
an eephus entitled “Rube”—To live in such a place
is something. To work every day at something
is something more, and to love baseball is something
else. High-driven sphere upon our sanctified
bleachers.
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