Home Stand

Home Stand
Peanut shells splay out
under trudging feet,
cupped upturning hands
catching sloshed beer fly balls.
The uniforms are still midday,
blaring, bright—not yet clay
sliding streaked.
Hot dogs roll
It is June.
There is an organ somewhere
hidden blaring.
All the balls were slathered
muddy in Mississippi—somehow
gleam again. The man in Black
we call Blue—
Play Ball
A pile of spittle-drenched sun-
flower seeds sits in my lap. Crack
Spit Crack Spit grows the pile. You
beside me—sun-glassed and blue-
capped and grinning—score-
book on your knee, pencil
in your fingers.
It is June. Father/Son day.

Poem written by Tim Bagdanov

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