Baseball in Grand Central

Dark hair curls appear from underneath the Yankees cap
pulled tightly down on his head.
He stares at a point beyond the escalator as
his left hand cradles his gloved right hand.
Tensed, ready,
he sees not the crowd but
watches and waits.
For a long fly ball?
A long departed ghost?
A long lost love?

27 July 2011
Shire on the Hudson

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Filed under Baseball, New York, Poem

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