And this is the song of
one man’s passion for another,
Gregor speeding the gap,
heedless of outfield grass or
Perfection in his pocket he
finds the last possible step and
flies, hurling himself in the
general direction of a padded fence,
midair twist, stretching an arm to
snip the arc a foot from the ground.
He rumbles across the dirt like a
crippled jet, holds up his glove,
ripe with fruit,
the sweetest of twenty-seven apples.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV