The Last Inning
Published in Poet's Domain, Volume Nine, 1994 Edition
Copyright © 1989, 1994, 2004
Jason Lester Atkins
985 Fleet Drive, #347
Virginia Beach, VA 23454
All Rights Reserved.
Across the narrow gulf
Between our tilted beds,
His breathing engine chugs
Short bursts of conversation.
"Played till last May," he says,
Letting each breath slide strange whispers
From some struggling internal bellows,
"Played shortstop for the Atlanta Crackers."
Every syllable straining the white stitches
Tracing his brown breast.
Each turning like the curving tracks
Of a long forgotten toy train.
Being so much a healthy gift
Of nature's capricious playing machine,
He couldn't feel the cancer fingers
Slowly creeping into his chest.
So suddenly weak, legs go first
With no defense except denial.
Denying now the shadows calling,
"Play ball - there's the pitch."
Down the darkened corridor
Through the swinging doors,
Clangs the chemistry cart
Bringing welcome nighttime peace.
The bat cracks a sizzling grounder
Just made for a shortstop's glove.
He stops sobbing. He sleeps.
Some Information About the Above Poem
The poem is true. It is about a black man who was in the next bed to me in the hospital.
Jason Lester Atkins - May 18, 1989.
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