Monday, May 23, 2016

42, a poem by Dave Malone

42 
by Dave Malone

What Jackie knows
We hope to know.
And when Preacher
Steps up to bat,
The man decides
On home. No fear
In him we know
About. Such is
The stuff we cast
Our heroes with.
In palest nights,
The widow grasps
The lot of sand
And diamond grass.
The grace of speed,
The running path,
The numbered runs
Of Brooklyn’s best—
Always fleet
Of foot during
Triumphant theft.



Bio: Dave Malone received his graduate degree in English from Indiana State in 1994. He later lived in the New Albany area. He no longer lives in Indiana, but he considers himself part Hoosier. His great (seventh) grandmother, Mary Coughman Bridgewater, was a doctor of medicine in the early 1800s and lived at the small village of Pigeon Roost with her family. Though she lost children at the conflict there in 1812, she survived. 

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