by Mark DeFoe

Sayonara. Adios. To their life-long skill
at flinging the ol’ horsehide. No joke, pal.
A shortstop who once fired lasers now sprays
the stands and conks Aunt Sadie, quick as she
was with her stats. A second baseman heaves
bowling balls, trying to turn the double play.
A pitcher tosses gut-shot ducks, unleashing
wacky flyers, sad missiles programmed by chance.
What used to be bee bees, are now gopher balls.

The shrinks grow perplexed, their science thwarted.
Relax, they say, picture success, try yoga,
Zen, meditate. But muscles no longer
listen to the mind. Sweet Jesus, too young.
They have beaten their hands bloody on their locker.
It’s only a game, only their soul. What lie
do they tell their kids, the wife, the fans?

The old coaches try to dampen the pain. Son,
they say, the body has only so many
good throws in its quiver. When the well has
gone dry, the bucket can just haul up dust.

For some a gig as the droll color guy
spinning yarns in the broadcast booth awaits.
It’s a place and a name. But no Old Timers Day
can draw the ones who truly lost it. For them
remembering is too much like twisting
the knife fate left sticking in their hearts.

by Mark DeFoe

The work has been hot and dusty and hard.
Here, click beers while we rest on this good stump.

Grab this tossed rope and I’ll pull you ashore.
Let me slap your back while we grin and laugh.

Lie close here beside me and welcome my nearness.
Allow me to call you my beautiful girl.

Dance with me, tossing your long hair, letting
Me lead us in a graceful fandango.

Take this handshake, this pledge worth more than
Scratch on paper. We are simple creatures,

My arm round your quaking shoulders, our joy
at the solace of flesh on needy flesh.

by Geoff Wells

in summer sheets
half-cocked blinds seeping
an intrusive moon
of oblique chevrons
onto undulating intellect

believes it can understand
how important moments
sometimes go a little bit wrong

such as when Death
attempting to whisper in one’s ear
should have a stutter and a lisp
completely destroying the phonetic beauty
of one’s given name
inked into the pages of the eternal

by Geoff Wells

collects names
whispers faces
puzzles horn tones
sensual rhythms vibrating
in the hollow of the chest
rasping like a minstrel singer
hoarse all mask jungle of light and dark
dancing off cultured fingers
on a nervous banjo worn down
brown stained oily skin
like the texture of you
stretched tight on the membrane of song