Ichiro

He points his right toe like an arrow.

And he stands on his left foot, waiting to pounce.

A pitch!

A cut.

He doesn’t stab the earth with this. He’s too far down the line.

He’s taken off with his swing, leaving his bat spinning in the chalk.

He stands on a base. But he does not wait.

He races from first to third on a seeing-eye single.

Bending hearts on either side.

He’s still here, in Miami.

Don’t him pass you by.

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