A Poem Safe at Home
Mitts and Gloves
for Tom Lux
The catcher holds a kangaroo fetus in his,
the firstbaseman's grips a portable hairblower,
but everyone else just stares into theirs
punching a fist into it, stumped
trying to come up with a proper occupant--
The pitcher for example thinks a good stout padlock would go
right in there, but the leftfielder,
perhaps influenced by his environment,
opts for a beercan. The shortstop
informative about the ratio of power to size,
says, "Transistor. You know, radio." The
secondbaseman however he just stands and
grins and flapjacks his from hand to hand and back again,
secondbase dopey as always. Alas
cries the thirdbaseman, this void
of vacancy, pure-space beyond our defiant emptiness,--
abyss, haunted by the kiss of balls
we have not missed! oh absence
delice...The rightfielder looks dis-
gusted at this, he just snorts, hawks, spits
into his and croaks Hey look: heck,
my chaw of tobac fits it perfeck.
The team goes mum, cowhided by
the rectitude of his position, the logic.
Only the centerfielder, who was going back
while this discussion was going on,
putting jets on his cleats to catch the proverbial
long one,
does he perhaps have a suggestion...?
As for the ball, off in midair it dreamily
scratches its stitches and wonders
what it will look like tomorrow when it wakes up
and the doctor removes its bandages--
CODA
Mitts are whitecollar; professionals;--
designed for firstbase, homeplate, unique, elite,--
and therefore moral. The glove on the
other hand is human and can be worn
interchangeably by
all player's, dirty, low-down, dumb. I'm
forced to admire the mitt but
free (in theory) to love gloves.
--Bill Knott, from Becos (Random House, 1983)
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