Elegy to My Grandmother’s Husband

Since I’ve heard your voice and seen you, Grandpa,

most of my life has passed

and though forever out of reach,

a long-ball gone beyond the fence,

I feel your presence still;

with me

like the cryptic scent of neatsfoot-oiled leather

on my glove-hand,

infield dirt beneath the nails of my right,

grass-stained knees,

the easy feel of a clean line-drive.

It’s true I was afraid when you were drunk on Early Times

shot straight in the morning,

highball glass on your TV tray at night,

with me in Grandma’s lap as darkness grew

but that’s only shadow

at the edge of light

that is my memory of you.

I remember how you gave my catcher’s mitt to me.

You bought it new, but I could feel and smell

you’d rubbed it up, worked it in.

I see now when you held it in your arms like a baby

just before you placed it on my hand,

taught me the signs,

how to make a pitcher trust his pitch,

catch a curve, marshal the infield,

showed me the heart and head of the catcher’s job

and how you loved the game.

I never saw you

catch throw field or hit

but I feel now as if that mitt was old and yours,

and when I

nail a runner stealing second base

snag a wild pitch to save a run

or block the plate and make the winning out—

when I do the work I need to do between the lines

on this last road trip to end the season—

that I’m finishing up the game for you.

Words on a Wire