Friday, April 10, 2015


If the nine of them were a baseball team
Aunt Sadie would be the wily pitcher
Shaking off the signs her mother gives
From the dugout. Her speedball, true, is
Nothing special, but her screwballs
And her deceptive curves break
At the last moment, gleefully arcing
Just within the strike zone’s corners
So the ball slams time after time
Into Aunt Doris’s glove. Sadie’s so good
The outfielders are bored. Uncle Joe
Seems asleep in right field; my father, in left,
Is carefully imagining a game to be played
Fifty years hence, unless it rains.

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