The Yips
It was a momentary lapse of reason,
but not the good, Pink Floyd I’m stoned
mellow kind.
It was like waking in a foreign country
wondering what language they speak.
I couldn’t remember how to throw a baseball.
I didn’t even recognize this round thing
with threads, revolved it, fascinated
as if it were a snowglobe.
This morning I woke up, shuffled downstairs,
out of sorts, ready to take a bat to the world.
Dumped four scoops of Lavazza Opera
in the tan paper filter, poured five cups
of cold water in and punched the button,
the blue light came on.
Daisy is sitting staring at me waiting
for her breakfast. I growl at her,
fill her bowl.
Coffee’s done. Grab two cups
froth the milk, pour. Perfect latte.
I climb the stairs, Daisy trots ahead.
You’re in bed smiling.
I smile.
Place your cup on the nightstand.
I go into a stretch, wind-up
pepper that ball
dead center. Strike.
***
Career Advice from the Mets
Waiting to hear back from a job interview
that sounds perfect, right in my wheelhouse—
a hanging curveball in the bottom of the ninth
ready to be parked.
The Mets stormed to the cellar like it was filled
with bonus money. Limp-armed bullpen,
offense in neutral. Loyalty is its own reward
but the smiles from wearing my ballcap—earned.
My wife chats between innings, ignores my
curses. We feed the deer, plan our next trip;
our only problem: the Mets. My phone buzzes—
I let that curveball hit the glove.
***
2 July 1963
The Day Juan Marichal and Warren Spahn Pitched 15 1/2 Shutout Innings
Kennedy wasn’t dead, a six-pack could still get you to third base;
maybe home if you were brave enough to steal.
Our second floor walk-up, cramped too small for parties, or a fair fight
but big enough nobody cared on a Friday night.
Dad built the business on the back of his father, leaves a light on for
whatever god he believes in that day; keeps the bar afloat.
Mom cooks the books, snags us a liquor license, is blamed for every
thing, takes it on the chin like Sonny Liston; keeps Dad afloat.
Sis looks for a happy end that isn’t. The future, I tell her, is right here;
a bent pop-top, a spent match, a broken shoelace.
Willie Mays ends the game with a walk-off homer in the 16th, a beer
costs $.70, Marilyn is dead; life is full of promises it keeps to itself.
***
Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press 2024, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres, 2024 by Bottlecap Press. His full-length collection, Bombshells, Bozos & Bastards was released by Alien Buddha Press in 2026. He lives in Hudson Valley of New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.
