My father dropped lines for a living,
distinguished foul from fair,
white chalk on the greenest of grass,
bounded baseball diamonds, tapered
to a fine point at home, tracing
divergent infinities, right and left field,
I’d join him Saturday mornings, in chilly spring
in early mist, before mid-day suns
would warm and laughter ring,
the pop of ball on leather mitts
rising above the hurrah, higher than towering
flies in golden sky that shine no more
except in the glimmer of my mind’s eye.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 