THOUGHTS AT THE HIGH SCHOOL GAME

I used to be a shortstop.
Not a great one, mind you,
but not that bad
if I say so myself.
Back then, my specialties
were moving to my left
and shagging the short flies.
Our outfielders knew it
and played deep.

Such powers do diminish.
These days I watch the games
from the third row behind
the home team dugout.
The other day one of the kids
asked if I played ball
when I was young.
I was tempted, I do admit,
to regale him with the saga
of what we did in ‘58,
but thought better of it,
and went for the easy laugh.
"Yeah," I said, "and the older
I get, the better I was."
He smiled.
(I was a pretty good
base stealer too,
if I do say so myself.)

A SHEPHERD RECEIVES A PERFORMANCE REVIEW

Matthew 18:12-14

Look, I hired you because
you told me you had what it takes
to be a good shepherd.
But, goddamn it,
you can’t just leave
the whole flock on its own
to go looking for a stray.
That’s irresponsible . . . stupid.
What if something spooked them?
What if that cougar showed up?
I know, I know,
that didn’t happen
and you found the runaway.

Listen, son, I know you meant well
but you got lucky.
A really good shepherd has to be
. . . well . . . practical,
know what makes for sound economics,
honor the bottom line.

Okay, you can go.
Just don’t let it happen again.

SPRING TRAINING

When I was a boy
spring’s blessing was a mixed one.
Yes, it was warm enough
to dig out my battered glove
from the pile of junk in the closet,
go outside and throw the tennis ball
against the wall
of the garage and pretend
I was the starting pitcher
for Connie Mack’s A’s
in their first preseason
game in Florida.

But the same sun that lured
me outside for such fantasy
likewise woke the grass.
"Lawn needs mowed"
my father would say,
which was not an observation
but an order.
The neighbors had a power mower.
We did not.
And you can believe it or not
but I swear to you
our lawn was bigger than the outfields
of the Polo Grounds,
Ebbets Field,
and Yankee Stadium.
Combined.

SOMETHING SPRINGS ETERNAL

The orange cat is
back
on warm spring days
like this one
she camps beneath
my backyard bird feeder
and looks up
longingly
with hope
or expectation
I can’t tell which

WHEN THE CALL COMES

When the call comes
you will hear yourself say
what people say at such times:
"her suffering is over now"
"he always said he wanted to go with his boots on"
"she lived a good life"
and part of you,
most of you,
believes it.

But the rest of you
wants to carry
protest signs
around God’s headquarters
and chant slogans
of indignation
and rage.

MY NEXT POEM

My next poem will be
an instant classic.
Published in Atlantic Monthly,
intemperately hailed by critics,
it will be lauded
for its honesty and wit,
its winsome insouciance.
It will be described as
"bold and bright"
maybe even as
"a proverbial gem of purest ray serene."

Not this one, of course.
The next one.

BIRD COUNT

If you’ve never gone out to the woods with
a bunch of bird watchers
you should
not so much to watch the birds
as to watch the watchers
who incidentally prefer
the term "birders"
don’t ask me why
also don’t ask me why
they get more excited
spotting a Swainson’s thrush
than a baseball fan does
when it’s two outs
bases loaded
and three and two on the batter
and as far as I know
birders are the only people
who when they use the term
"lifer" are not referring
to someone who is in jail till
he dies but to a new bird
to add to their lifetime list.

So . . .
how many are on yours?
I’m up to 68.