Allie's Mitt

When the radiation sickness yellowed me,

As the chemo shook out every red hair that I had,

And my white blood cells were a deconstructing artillery,

I scanned the green writing through eyes filmy, cataracted:

Deep grooves cut into the leather of memory

Written in the fused scent of mink oil,

And the good, clean dirt of the ball field,

Driven, discolored, so deep into the laces

Simple to slip on the player’s right hand

He used to cover the white scars and stitch-mark traces

The mitt that, for hours, we used to play catch with

we would be Feller, Newhouser or Ford

(fewer remembered backs of the catchers)

Alternately glaring down batters or squatting so low

ready to receive the sock in the pocket

And the Dodgers would never get past us,

until dusk made the ball too small to see.

After our team suffered its greatest loss

He carried the glove folded from Ernie’s to the Edmont –

equipment never misplaced. Protected with a cardinal red hat –

half a battery - left at the end, delayed, tearful but happy in the rain

The verse evidence still in green, the poems all arranged:

don’t let me disappear

don’t let me disappear

don’t let me disappear

From heel to web

in Holden’s handwriting.