The Twenty-Nine Hand
Whaling city, corner of Brownell and Court,
a screened in porch masks a red maple card table,
A worn deck of Bicycles neatly stacked atop a
Scrimshaw-laden cribbage board,
straddled by two glasses of bittersweet lemonade.
The game begins with Ned Martin's pregnant pauses
as Yaz slams one over the Green Monster,
and grandpa grins and gives me a wink.
His fisherman hands expertly riffle the cards.
Little ears perk to chants of ' Louie, Louie, Louie'
He pitched three fives, two threes and a Jack of Hearts.
Threes to the crib, an eight cut and double skunked again.
Another tragic season, the Red Sox get nineteen.
Quiet corner, Watson Road
old red brick farmhouse, sony TV with surround sound
atop a well-aged red maple card table.
'Gwenivere, the Green Monster is the wall in left field.'
I grin and give her a wink as the Red Sox
pitch to her a twenty-nine hand.