Number Three Hundred


When Babe
called his shot
pointed high
past the bleachers
adjacent the scoreboard

overhead
the clock
slowly ticking on
measured inches
feet
in direct ratio to
loss of speed
versus entropy

or time

of long ago
afternoons
behind Edisto Drive
as you rubbed
that greasy apron
fragrant
of bean sprouts
and soy sauce

wound up
let loose
at me
under a pecan tree
your fifty year old arm
sore
from three hundred
consecutive throws

I cocked
fast hands swung.

On Channel 32
Tom Terrific fires
and Hawk yells

flyball
short left

Reid Nichols
camps under it

(pause)

History.