Winters I practiced swinging my Al Kaline
Louisville Slugger in the living room mirror,
trying to keep a level bat
whether the pitcher in my mind
threw down & out or up & in. When summer
after summer saw me look good
striking out every chance I got, I traded
my lumber for a Venus No. 2.
In hopes of making contact & a name
for myself after all, I grooved my strokes
across each page, delineating features
I dreamed were mine. At first I couldn’t draw
from memory, which I wrote off as pure
imagination then but now follow
to the end, a blind man
trusting where my stick leads.