That’s the number Ed writes.
Baseball poems. Whoops.
Sated, sitting at Massimo’s
another six years,
during which the franchise
expands. Am I acclimated
after a good rum? Another
stretch, absolutely
the last day for lunch.
A night slightly sweeter.
A couple of weeks in Toronto,
his grandmother’s
service, arms open wide.
The fog rolling over
a dark blue shelf.
