I think I detect my dads left handed
broken-in baseball glove- black leather
from 1944 when he was drafted by the Yankee
farm team in upstate NY.
Playing summer baseball in the street, I’d
press it to my nose,
breathe it in-
feel comforted and wait for a fly ball.
I swear I smell tobacco
from my grandfathers camel non filters
as I buried my face into his brown woolen
sweater, as he hugged me hello
stepping out of his car in 1960-
Driving all the way from New Jersey to see us.
And there it is.. ripe black raspberries from my
Scraggily bushes along the fence.
Our thumbs and lips stained blue and
Finally and forever I am aware of the figs on my
from that winter kiss standing in the kitchen-