The Announcer.

   On a balmy night my brother hunched
   over an empty glass on the kitchen table
   bringing us the Dodgers and Phils
   from the Ebbets Field of his imagination,
   my younger brother and I in pajamas
   settling in with chocolate milk
   to watch Don Newcombe stare in for the sign,
   the outfield shaded to left or right,
   infield back at double play depth.
   My brother's tongue on the roof of his mouth cracked
   line drives over second and long fly balls
   that curved just foul,
   his voice rising and falling through quick
   five pitch innings and elaborate rallies
   started by Ashburn's walk or Reese's bunt
   that Jones let roll dead on the line.
   Night air poured through the screen door,
   my brother stared into the space before him,
   the game building a rhythm that had our father
   lingering over the sink to hear Sisler digging
   wide around third with the tying run,
   and here comes Furillo's throw, a bullet
   from the base of the wall,
   and there we are in our kitchen turning
   toward my brother under the light
   of the hanging lamp, the roar of thousands
   growing out of his throat, his eyes wild and distant.