fitzgerald
Cobb Would Have Caught It
In sunburnt parks where Sundays lie,
Or the wide wastes beyond the cities,
Teams in grey deploy through sunlight.
Talk it up, boys, a little practice.
Coming in stubby and fast, the baseman
Gathers a grounder in fat green grass,
Picks it stinging and clipped as wit
Into th eleather: a swinging step
Wings it deadeye down to first.
Smack. Oh, attaboy, attyoldboy.
Catcher reverses his cap, pulls down
Sweaty casque, and squats in the dust:
Pitcher rubs new ball on his pants,
Chewing, puts a jet behind him;
Nods past batter, taking his time.
Batter settles, tugs at his cap:
A spinning ball: step and swing to it,
Caught like a cheek before it ducks
By shivery hickory: socko, baby:
Cleats dig into dust. Outfielder,
On his way, looking over shoulder,
Makes it a triple. A long peg home.
Innings and afternoons. Fly lost in sunset.
Throwing arm gone bad. There’s your old ball game.
Cool reek of the field. Reek of companions.
– Robert Fitzgerald
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Night Images
Late in the cold night wakened, and heard wind,
And lay with eyes closed and silent, knowing
These words how bodiless they are, this darkness
Empty under my roof and the panes rattling
Roughed by wind. And so lay and imagined
Somewhere far off black seas heavy-shouldered
Plunging on sand and the ebb off-streaming and
Thunder forever. So lying bethought me, friend,
What traffic ghouls have, or this be legend,
In low inland hollows of the earth, under
Shade of moon, the night moaning, and bitter frost;
And feared the riches of my bones, long given
Into this earth, should tumble to their hands.
No girl or ghost beside me, and I lonely,
Remembering gardens, lilac scent, or twilight
Descending late in summer on that town,
I lay and found my years departed from me,
And feared the cold bed and the wind, absurdly
Alone with silence and the trick of tears.
– Robert Fitzgerald
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