I am queen of my neighborhood
with my lefty glove in hand.
All guys and me, the lone girl,
picking teams for the game
“We got her” I hear, and then,
Scott with the mad crush on me
mumbles under his breath, “you can have her.”
I stand with my brother, my protector,
my best friend at my side.
Baseball cap on backwards
and a wad of Bazooka Joe
tucked neatly in my cheek,
proclaiming my coolness to the girls
dressed in pink, playing with their Barbie’s.
On the transistor radio we hear the droll
of Curt Gowdy announcing the sox game.
Innings linger on all day, we rest only to
trade doubles of Roberto Clemente
and Wally Moon, for a Willy Mays
or a Manny Mota, and like Pavlov’s dog we
step aside to let the milk man
deliver the weekly supply
that sustains us through
these hot summer days.
He welcomes us into the truck
to grab jagged hunks of ice
to cool off, it’s either that or
drink from the hose.
Score is tied with an imaginary man
on third, and the crack of the bat
results in an automatic homer off the roof
Then dinner bells ring in unison
for us to head home
and prepare for tomorrow.