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Solitary in the Back Yard
by Wilda Morris

        For John Cass

In March on cold, damp ground
jacket zipped, ball in hand
he squeezes the glove,
knows its smell,
the raw feeling of swinging the bat,
the thunk of a baseball
on brown winter grass.

As shadows fall he is still there
pitching to himself, swinging,
chasing the ball across the alley,
excitement is his voice
as he calls the play-by-play.

It is always the ninth inning.
He is always the triumphant hero.


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