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OTHER POEMS
by McFee
 
The Tunnel

The Whistler

Retirement

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Old Baseball Found under a Bush

On this ultimate spitball

steeped for who knows how many unseasonable seasons

under a parkside bush,

two tiny snails are tracing

fingerings: fast ball, slider, split finger, curve,

a methodical rehearsal

over horsehide so putrified

the regulation pressure-wound muscular core beneath

is dissoving like newsprint.

This is something you want

to drop, not throw: the old flirtation with gravity

has gone sour, there's too much

dirt and sweaty scuff and smell,

the once-delicate swell of the never-ending stitches

hidden in the pitcher's grip

protrudes like bones through skin.

This thing was meant for the heavy hands of the dead.

So I bury it under some leaves

as the snails polish their trail,

a couple of umpires searching for whatever it was

that made this ball jump once.

from Colander

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© Copyright 2000 Endeavors magazine, The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. All rights reserved.

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