Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

Ed Markowski

section 408 tiger stadium

two black men in white hats
eating catfish sandwhiches
white bread blood red with
hot sauce beside a blonde
boy wrapped in green plaid
blankets behind a pair of
muddy converse all stars
attached to freckled legs
draped over the seat's back
laughing in their beer next
to a blue scarved woman
breathing in a bag of pop
corn next to one huge
belly moving like an ocean
swell on a cool sunday
seagulls circle the center-
field flagpole over four
crows perched on a green
railing listening to the
secrets of denim clad lovers
casting one shadow at the
coke vendor's feet scent of
red buds and cheap perfume
from a thin blonde dream
and then the sudden movement
of ten thousand necks turning
at once to watch a small
white ball kiss a distant
autumn cloud.

tiger baseball
late july 1967

on a hot
muggy sunday
in late july,

willie horton crouched
in left field,
al kaline crouched
in right,

columns of oily smoke
curl over the light
standards, lit as though
we're in the dead of night.

from the city burning
all around the ballpark,
police and fire sirens
mute the roar of the crowd.

at week's end,
forty-three dead
and the home team
destined for second place.

©2003 by Ed Markowski

Ed Markowski lives and writes in Auburn Hills, Michigan. His work has been published in The Birmingham Poetry Review, Sho, The Elysian Fields Quarterly, Fan Magazine, and Modern Haiku.

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