I wonder what poems were on Allie Caulfield’s left handed glove
Written in green ink, so he had
Something to read
Between
Pitches
He read Shakespeare soliloquies
And Dickinson, was stained on there, too
First chill-then stupor-then the letting go
Was it sad poetry, or poetry relating to the game?
Casey struck out,
And Mudville lost that day

Mostly, I wonder would Allie like my poetry?
Or would he, like his brother, think I was a phony?
I think he would have enjoyed it,
Because I tend to write about flowers.
They live as they died,
In vivid authenticity.