No next of kin, no fear of flight, the ball
			rejects the Earth. I watch it climb its high
			sweet curve --past Stars & Stripes, past careless sprawl
			of clouds strung-out on August's tepid sky--
			then disappear, a childlike dream let loose.
			In that release, I find the kind of thread
			the mind will happen on, but seldom choose;
			I think of you, a prisoner of your bed
			of drab and steel, obliged to fight your days
			of age alone. You'd love to shout, hosanna, 
			just fly away, skip over death's delays,
			dear one, whose daughters name you Pollyanna,
			whose style is joie de vivre, chic red dresses,
			the extra mile, the helping hand --and kisses.


						--- Julian Crowell
				
						Thanks to The Lyric
						for publishing 
						"Homerun At Fenway"
						in its Spring, 2004 issue.