He collects baseball cards
like they’re shining silver dollars.
He carries them carefully
in his front pockets.
He feels wealthy with his cards –
his Musial, his mint-condition Mays,
his Slaughter, a card
kids would kill to have.
He likes to sit
beneath the successful sweet-gum tree
and talk to his cards:
Say hey, Willie.
Pound one over the pavilion, Stan.
Enos, show me how to hustle home
from first on a single.
he strides down Summit Street