by Sally Jo Sorensen
Never mind the kid was freckle- faced or batted left
beneath close-cropped hair color of a barn swallow's belly
turning mid-flight in our mid-June Midwest prairie air
never mind the fancy school out East or syllables he creased
each time he spoke or how he slouched a little more
each time you saw him walking by the river
with our town's old hag who'd lately trimmed her hair.
Don't tell me you didn't know
each time you read his bat describe
a baseball to the sky you didn't know
how far he'd be out of here.