Backstops
The backstops are flying away,
the ones our grandfathers built,
the ones we climbed when we were small,
sitting on top of their huge overhangs
and looking out over
the baseball fields of life
like small birds riding the old and rusty
rhinoceroses which seemed not to move at all—
that’s how slow they were moving—
while we sat there munching our lunches
and watching the game. And who
would have thought the backstops would ever
not be there, standing behind us and our
children, and our children’s children,
when it came time to step up to the plate
and take a few swings. But now the backstops
are flying out of the park, flying out of town,
flying out of the country, and what
can the umpires do but remove their masks
and squint in disbelief like the rest of us
at the backstops going, going, going, gone.
Paul Hostovsky is the author of three books of poetry, Bending the Notes (2008), Dear Truth (2009), and A Little in Love a Lot(2011). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009. He works in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com
