The Old Ball Game

The Old Ball Game

By Kenny Likis

I dig in, squeeze the bat, spit
I look the pitcher in the eye and mouth
I am going to undress you
The pitcher snickers, lets it fly
But I am sitting in a red collapsible camping chair
on the shore of Walden Pond reading
a poem that never strikes out
letting the game come to me
The poem stirs memories thicker than jambalaya
The poem leads the league in extra-base hits
Up the shore Henry David Thoreau is bathing
his skin so white you’d think he descended from Easter lilies
so white you’d think his parents poured him from a milk bottle
Henry David brags he’s a switch-hitting shortstop
I listen to his chatter, wade out and dive in
I practice my backstroke I float like baby Moses
Next time up I walk on four straight pitches
I scoot to first and get back to reading my poem

This was the third most-read piece of 2022.

Kenny Likis grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, watching the Double A Kansas City/Oakland A’s play at Rickwood Field. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, taught English at Bunker Hill Community College, collects baseball gloves, and pulls for the Red Sox. His poems have appeared in Caustic Frolic and Riddled With Arrows.

Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72.

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