In the shadow of Claremont Park
where years later
I’d see my first dead body
 I mastered the art of running bases.

In that not-quite ghetto section of the Bronx
where gloves and bats and balls
were only seen on TV

the house that Jackson, Nettles, Randolph and Dent built
less than a mile away beamed into
12-inch black and white mirrors
when pinstriped dreams didn’t have to be cable-ready
and you played for the love of the game

I ran back and forth
between selected squares of concrete
skinned knees bleeding from enthusiasm

back and forth
                   avoid the tag
     fake left
            head down
slide right
                 SAFE!!!

my mother’s plea to wear long pants
rang in my ears as the blood ran into my socks.

One summer
I tried to run from home
and my mother caught me at the front door
thoughtlessly packed bag stashed behind it
 smiling inside
because I didn’t really want to go.

A few summers later
we moved
the first in her never-ending quest
for a better place
     always whiter
          never greener
  each time further from home.

Twenty years later
without realizing
I follow her footsteps…

 In Virginia
 where the Civil War is called
the War of Northern Aggression
 and is still being fought
 her memory fails her

 convinces her the Bronx
 was a country girl’s bad dream

convinces me the color of the grass
depends on the tint of your glasses.

In the shadow of fallen skyscrapers
and bankrupt dreams
underneath starless skies
thick with second guesses

I wander the streets that raised me
testing the tainted air with my tongue

looking for a place where I can feel safe again
looking for a place that I can call home.

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Keywords : baseball, Yankees, Bronx, family, home,

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