World Series

They brought out the triple amputee.

We all stood at attention and applauded. 

He crossed the diamond as if freeing himself

From devices invisible to the naked eye,

In a crispy dress uniform. He stabbed the earth

With a cane, one sleeve flapping in the breeze.

The applause exploded as he jack-knifed himself

To the mound. The voice boomed again:

“Two tours in Afghanistan, Triple Amputee

Recipient of five Purple Hearts and a Navy Cross,

A true American hero,” and a name was spoken

Like one of those you hear every day.

He tossed the ball (the pitcher held his glove

At the small of his back so he wouldn’t tumble

From the mound). It plopped from his hand,

Then rolled a few feet away. The handsome

Faces of the players, heroes themselves, froze;

They stood tall, shoulders back, limbs complete. 

The announcer praised the triple amputee

For defending freedom, and for giving us

The chance to remember it, to salute his sacrifice.

But where, Iraq or Afghanistan, did he leave his limbs?

No one knew. No one but him thought it mattered

Which country of strangers had claimed them

As trophies of their own heroism, just that

He’s ours, and needs more than ever to feel it—

I’m thinking, Jesus, he gave up three of four

With a good sixty years left, barring complications,

And for what, but banks and business and good guy

Fantasies in the stands, fans on their feet, patriots 

Clapping with the same thunder as the jets overhead, 

Some checking who’s not enthusiastic enough. 

Even those who came for baseball were clapping

While the team’s colors got painted on the heavens.

After the final out, in defeat or in victory,
We fight like caged dogs to get out of the lot.