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I've never written a baseball poem, For Reuben Jackson, who has

I didn't even make the seventh grade girls' third team substitute. Still can't throw straight. Last Easter, scrub game with the kids, I hit a foul right through Captain Kelly's French doors, had to pay. Still, these sultry country nights when I watch the dark ballet of players sliding into base, I shout ``Safe! He's safe! He's home!'' and so am I.

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