Mantle’s dead.
The world is upside down.
Drunk on fastballs;
missed the hanging curve.
Now no more facades.
Gone the oil and leather.
Left to limp alone
this outfield stretch
of time.
Warning tracks
in the mirror;
shadows of the switcher.
Rounding third,
head down, for home.
Shake with Frank Crosetti,
Yogi at the plate.
Steps are full of Enos,
Moose and Gil.
Got a run for Whitey.
Grim is in the pen.
Smiles again, and
shyly tips his bill.
From the cannon shot
off Ramos to the
knuckleball of Shultz
all the way to Denny’s
freebie five-uh-oh.
From drainage ditch
to abscessed hip,
through bottles
and beyond.
A seven etched
in the heart.
Slow motion dreams
of gray pinstripe.
The Mick’s no more
around.
Old Casey
sent him down.
The perfect drag.
The comet
run aground.