by Bill Cushing
As children, Henry Aaron and Don Sutton
grew up in towns three hours apart
and learned the game between fields of cotton;
then the hitter moved east, the pitcher, west,
as they took paths to opposite coasts.
Two All-Stars, they became among the best.
Upon dying, Sutton arrived first and may
have used the time to loosen his arm
while warming up on the clay
waiting for Hammerin’ Hank’s arrival.
As they play, now in eternal prime,
celestial fans admire erstwhile rivals
and wonder, from where they sit,
what is the most wonderous display:
the sweet pitch or power-driven hit?
A former New Yorker, Bill Cushing lives and writes in Los Angeles as a Dodger fan (by order of his wife!). His latest collection, Just a Little Cage of Bone (Southern Arizona Press), contains this and other sports-related poems.