Why Did You Keep Pedro In?

by james Blair





We couldn't have got there without you.
We were five outs away from a win.
You were the smartest guy in the stadium.
But why did you keep
Pedro in?


We don't believe in those curses.
We could care less about old Harry's sin.
But with such a powerful bullpen,
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


Oh,
Pedro was awesome for seven,
And it looked like he could hang in.
Those two liners showed he'd become shaky—
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


Though whacked cold,
Johnny Damon kept waving;
The guys always want to stay in.
Of course,
Pedro'd say he could blow them away,
But why did you keep
Pedro in?


He could have left the hill as a hero—
We'd say
Pedro had smoked them again!
You could not deny that his pitch count was high,
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


We know there is one consolation:
We know you'll never do it again.
Still the cry rises from Red Sox Nation:
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


With each move you had out-managed
Torre.
Yankee cheering was growing quite thin.
With such talented benches for backup,
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


You made us now root for the Marlins,
And we hardly know how to begin.
You almost upended the Empire,
Why did you keep
Pedro in?


You brought new pizzazz to the clubhouse:
The crew found the cowboy within.
You did so much for the guys, but with tears in our eyes,
We say, why did you keep
Pedro in?


































I Hear America Singing


By Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics,
each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,
or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat,
the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench,
the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song,
the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning,
or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother,
or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.


http://www.poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=175779

Pumpernickel

Monday mornings Grandma rose an hour early to make rye,
onion & challah, but it was pumpernickel she broke her hands for,
pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway, mashed potatoes
& several Old Testament stories about patience & fortitude & for
which she cursed in five languages if it didn’t pop out fat
as an apple-cheeked peasant bride. But bread, after all,
is only bread & who has time to fuss all day & end up
with a dead heart if it flops? Why bother? I’ll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off the black crust like a strip
of pure sunlight & the hard oily flesh breaks open like a poem
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity a single glistening truth
& who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart when you
hold a slice up to the light in all its absurd splendor & I tell you
we must risk everything for the raw recipe of our passion.


My Papa’s Waltz

The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death:Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pansSlid from the kitchen shelf: My mother’s countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missedMy right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt,Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.