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BASEBALL POETRY

Minor League
By Sarah Freligh

Al lives with five other guys
and orange shag carpeting
(the color of insanity, Al has heard),
a hole in the living room
wall weeping plaster where
Boonie put his fist through
trying to prove how tough he was
to a girl he picked up at the pool.

Stu, the handyman, comes to fix it, bringing
his complaints: so much rain, so hard
on the missus, her arthritis. Where's
the old Florida, he wants to know—
flamingoes, blue sky, oranges, sun—
snow last winter, can you beat that?
Should have seen all those rich orange
growers up in Orlando watching the sky
like they were waiting for a favor from God.

Boonie cast his hand in masking
tape that everyone wrote on
with a felt-tipped pen. No brain,
no pain, Al put, signed his name,
finishing the"l" in a happy face.
Practicing.

—EFQ

The poetry and short stories of SARAH FRELIGH, formerly a sportswriter for the Philadelphia Inquirer, have appeared in Cimarron Review, Third Coast, Iowa Woman, Painted Bride Quarterly, Aethlon, and Comstock Review. "Minor League" is from her collection in progress entitled Chin Music.

© 2000 Sarah Freligh

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