That smell of cigar smoke

reminded me...

old men gripping score cards

the Woodside train

a blur on the tracks to Flushing

the concession stand

pucks of hamburgers

emerging from a sea

of grease and onions.

I sat high in the bleachers

still--

listening for the hard slap

of Seaver's fastball

sneaking down to the depths

for the boxes

and a diamond

glittering in a hot Summer's sun.

Gawky and shambling...

but here

I was an Adonis of batting averages

strikeouts, stats

Here I was graceful,

smooth as an athlete

with this knowledge.

Nine innings were played out for me

with rules, limits, final resolutions

perhaps poetic justice...

And as Agee

circled the bases

in an arrogant

homerun strut

I wondered

if my

life would

ever be so

clear cut?