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.
by 