Late Season Slump
He's now aware of every crack
in the sidewalk of his game:
the bat's not cocked back too far,
the grip's not too tight,
stance not too tense —
after years in the minors
he should know.
Still in the game,
he lately thinks, Just no good
pitch to crush. Still,
in the box, he waits to pound
a ball out of the park.
When he swings, his eyes
close, hips drift, breath holds. The lucky
gold cross his old man gave him flips
wildly forward on its chain.
Follow-through, follow-through —
that's all he hears.
Sure enough, the ball squibbles
back toward the mound.
I'm done. He doesn't bother
to run the play out.
As he looks up, his arms
extend — face numb, legs cold-stiff.
Jesus, what now.
Robert Manaster's poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Birmingham Poetry Review, Image, Maine Review, Into the Void, and Spillway. His co-translation of Ronny Someck's The Milk Underground was awarded the Cliff Becker Book Prize in Translation. He's also published poetry book reviews in such publications as Rattle, Colorado Review, and Massachusetts Review.