Vern Fein
An old man, arms crossed,
watches his grandson in Farm League,
remembers thousands of hours
on district ball fields across his life,
Major League, Little League, Colt League
games with his sons,
his daughter’s softball,
years of coaching them
and other childrens’
beaming faces, crying (there is)—
slides, homeruns, doubles.
steals, triples, strikeouts,
singles, walks, shutouts.
Today, thirty years later,
he watches a grandson
on the same field
he coached his son
to a city championship,
an indelible memory
like the trophy
collecting dust in his office
until his son carries
it to his own home one day.
Watches his grandson,
no curve ball here,
a heater right to the heart.