I am counting down the days 

on my abacus of bone. I write home 

with my finest India ink. 

 

At dawn the damaged will be laid 

out in rows and warmed by a light 

until their strength returns. 

 

At least enough to wave. Little girl, 

this one’s for you. Always has 

been, always will be. I’m Babe Ruth 

 

pointing toward a distant, sun-hued 

orb. And just like that the shadows 

return to their lair. And applause. 

 

It moves me until I think that I might 

speak. Then the tragic schema 

of the common beach ball begins again.