Poem: Replay

Replay

Kyle finds the northwest tip of the

forty-eight and walks the beach.

An eagle traces the shoreline.

Lost in wings, Kyle stumbles on a

New York subway turnstile,

next to a sand dollar.

He slips it into the slot and walks through.

The sand rises, arrowing into the

ocean like the spine of a brontosaur.

The path is only three feet wide,

but Kyle ventures forward.

A black porpoise leaps from

the water, chittering. At two miles,

the beach fades from view.

An Orca swims past, daggers of

black and white. Kyle stumbles on a

pinball machine. His favorite.

Next to a sand dollar.

He slips it into the slot and plays.

He remembers the rhythm,

the moves, the tricks.

He feels lighter, younger.

He wears a cap, tight pants, cleats.

A light flashes red.

He hits the ball hard, up the

ramp, drops it into the slot.

The machine erupts with sound.

The ground shakes.

The spit is closing up; the

water rushes forward.

He turns to find a

fog-bound green,

a glove on his left hand.

The ring of a metal bat.

This is the flyball that

fell between him and the

shortstop, the one that

cost him the starting job.

The year they won the title.

Kyle charges forward,

yelling for the ball like

Luciano freakin’ Pavarotti.

First published by Challenger International

Canada

From the collection Fields of Satchmo

Photo by MJV