I didn’t want to be a writer
in my youth.  I wanted to
be a shortstop, or, at the
very least, if my arm
proved not strong
enough for short, a
second baseman, base-
woman, person?  
Ranging deep
to my left, snaring the
ball on its projected
path to right, wheeling
and throwing the
runner out by a
fraction at first.
A “bang-bang”
play, as the umpires
call it, for the
slap of ball
in glove followed
rapidly by the
slap of foot
on base. A
play.  Needless to
say, I never made it
to the majors.

Except on paper.

Majors was published in Philadelphia Poets 2010