the Dominican shortstop rounds third

the Dominican shortstop rounds third

The smell of stale Bud Light and cigarettes

festering beneath
a mocking Memphis sun

is not the smell of home. He swings to greet

a 1-1 curve -- the number
of state-side years it’s been

since last he saw his wrinkled abuelita
kneading the grainy corn
tortillas he knows as well

as Grady’s signs at third -- and stretches to beat the

throw to first the way
his tita Isabel

would chase and beat him as a niño if he

forgot to sweep the colmado
out on Friday nights.

A pimply high school student yells out something

about frijoles while
he re-ties his Nike spikes.

He wonders whether the dusty, worn-out spot

in Juan’s azúcar field
where dark-skinned hitters rub

the ground down thin with rhythmic practice cuts

is still the holy grounds
of hopeful praying prospects.

The sound of "Summer of 69" fills up

the park like Armstrong fills
the zone on Friday nights,  

and Bombers' fans cheer on their Latino shortstop

leading off of first,
pivoting left and right,

dancing the dirt with salsa steps. But he

is elsewhere, sweating beneath
a dripping sugarcane sun

in Santiago, the sound of flip-flopped feet

pattering as he rounds
the burlap sack to beat

the throw, stretching for home.