If you folks aint never read no baseball poetry maybe you should give 'er a go. Yep, go and get a copy of Sort of Gone by Sarah Freligh. It's one a them poe tree books that tells a story. And I must say, I was blowed smooth away by her lyrical power. Here's an egg sample of what gets throwed atcha once you take aim and turn the pages...
Lesson
For Christmas, Al gets a pitcher's
glove from his old man, real leather
smelling like the inside of a new car
or shoes just out of the box.
Time you learned something,
his father says, finishing off
his first pint of the day,
Adam's apple bouncing
like a ground ball on a gravel
infield. Before dinner they play
catch in the street, shin-deep
in snow. No coats. We ain't girls,
his father says, though you throw like one,
walks back to where Al is, slaps
him across the face with his callused
hand, says, Son, that's how the ball
should sound when it hits the glove.
Go gethcha a copy and enjoy
-spider
Lesson
For Christmas, Al gets a pitcher's
glove from his old man, real leather
smelling like the inside of a new car
or shoes just out of the box.
Time you learned something,
his father says, finishing off
his first pint of the day,
Adam's apple bouncing
like a ground ball on a gravel
infield. Before dinner they play
catch in the street, shin-deep
in snow. No coats. We ain't girls,
his father says, though you throw like one,
walks back to where Al is, slaps
him across the face with his callused
hand, says, Son, that's how the ball
should sound when it hits the glove.
Go gethcha a copy and enjoy
-spider
