ZEUS IN SUNSHINE
by
John Flynn
This
day Old Sol hides. The
count
stands three and one.
You
stare in, take the sign,
stretch,
and let fly.
Your
leather target explodes
in
dust and thunder.
A
minor deity erupts and pumps.
“Strike
two,” he scalds.
You
get it back.
Thumb
the herringbone seam,
roll
it in the palms of your hands.
All
the senses feast.
Sweat
it, stain it, dry it with dirt.
Rub
it smooth.
Make
it stick.
Late
inning overcast absconds.
You
are Zeus in sunshine.
The
orb of the earth is
in
your hand. You conjure up
players
and saints. Gehrig, Dimaggio,
Whitey
Ford, Emily Dickinson,
Christ,
what a poem!
Down
to one pitch. Throw harder
than
you’ve ever thrown before.
Make
it smoke.
Your
leather target explodes
in
dust and thunder.
He
didn’t even see it
leave
your hand,
but
heard the thunder.
~
first published in the Minneapolis
Observer Quarterly
