"Fenway"

My Poetry

I’ve started to write poetry in earnest. Here’s my latest effort…

Fenway

I.

Upon the streets of Boston, where the old brick dust is red,
Stands a lyric little bandbox where the legends make their bed.
Since nineteen-twelve the gates have swung to let the faithful in,
To a shrine of wood and steel, built for sorrow and for wins.

To the left the Monster towers, painted distinct Fenway green,
A thirty-seven-foot shadow, the most famous wall ever seen.
Inside, the numbers change by hand, a relic of the past,
While dents upon the metal show how hard the balls are cast.

The Triangle in center field where distinct angles play,
And the foul pole named for Pesky, just three hundred feet away.
One lone red seat in right field marks the spot of Teddy’s might,
While the Citgo sign pulsating acts as beacon in the night.

The wooden seats are narrow, the grandstand feels quite tight,
But the ghosts of Yaz and Teddy Baseball are sitting there tonight.
And when the eighth arrives, the trumpets start to whine,
As forty thousand voices belt out “Sweet Caroline.”

The modern boxes are shiny, with windows that seal,
But they cannot buy the history or the way this place makes you feel.
A cathedral built for baseball, under summer’s fading spark,
There is no place in heaven quite like grand old Fenway Park.

II.

Our jerseys scratched, the mesh was tight,
With “Mitrano Chevy” in purple and gold.
We stood in the lot where the pick-ups gleam,
A scruffy, sandlot Little League team.

Mr. Mitrano, with his ring and cigar,
Said, “Boys, pile into the lead car!”
The train of Suburbans, all shiny and new,
Taking me the catcher and all the crew.

From our dusty diamond in a quiet town,
To where the Green Monster stared us down.
The grass was neon, the dirt was red,
“This is the big leagues,” Mr. Mitrano said.

He bought us hot dogs and sodas for all,
Every time the Sox hit a long fly ball.
For one magic night, near Fenway’s green stones,
We were light years away from our homes.

III.

The wooden chair is hard and tight,
Bathed in the glow of the stadium light.
A sudden crack! The crowd looks high,
A spinning pearl in the Boston sky.

It clears the net and arcs my way,
The greatest moment of the day.
I stretch my arm, the leather snaps,
Amidst the roar and thunderous claps.

The sting is sharp, the grin is wide,
With fifty years of dust inside.
No store-bought gift could ever match
The magic of a Fenway catch.

IV.

The air was thick with damp September gloom,
A grey and heavy curtain drawing near,
To mark the closing of the quiet room,
And end the grind of one final, fading year.
The crowd was thin, a scatter of the true,
Who braved the chill to bid the Kid adieu.

I sat along the line in right-field stands,
Just watching him, the tall and sullen king,
Checking the pine tar on his calloused hands,
Practicing that violent, fluid swing.
He dug his spikes into the batter’s box,
The last titan of the Boston Red Sox.

Jack Fisher wound and threw the white sphere in,
A fastball high, perhaps a mistake made.
And then the hips, the wrists, the jagged grin,
The greatest artist ever to have played
Uncoiled his body like a loaded spring,
And made the silence of the ballpark ring.

521’s sound was distinct—like a rifle crack,
A sonic boom that severed past from now.
We watched the ball climb up against the black
Of low-hung clouds, a final, soaring bow.
It plunged into the bullpen, deep and far,
A dying burst from a collapsing star.

He circled bases with a steady trot,
Head down, no smile, a pilot doing work.
He touched the plate, ignoring what we sought,
With just a simple, stoic, little jerk.
He vanished in the dugout’s dark embrace,
And never turned to look us in the face.

We screamed, “Teddy Baseball,” ‘til our throats were raw,
Begging the hero for a tip o’ the cap.
But he obeyed his own internal law,
And left us with the thunder of the clap.
For gods, they say, do not answer our plea,
They simply conquer, leave the stage, and flee.

—Oaxaca 021920