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She comes prepared.
From a tattered gym bag
she pulls
her game cushion,
worn to fit her,
binoculars,
a few chewed but sharp #2 pencils,
her own pad of score sheets,
and a flask of black coffee.
She measures life
n baseball time:
born the year Yankee Stadium opened,
married the summer of The Streak,
Ted's .406,
son born during Jackie Robinson's
first season,
daughter born two days after
the "shot heard 'round the world,"
alone since the Yankees' last pennant.
"Leaving before the last out,"
she says, resting her chin on her
ebony cane,
"is like dying
before your time."
