Afro-Seattleite Fragment #8: Ken Griffey, Jr., or The Sweetest Swing.

Friend, Malcolm

Afro-Seattleite Fragment #8:
Ken Griffey, Jr., or The Sweetest Swing

   It was never really level,
   more of a tilt,
   like the cap
   on your head
   pegged as disrespect
   to the sport.
   Back elbow bent perfectly--
   you danced.

   Not with your legs, of course
   (front knee locked,
   back foot floating),
   but your hips played lead
   to your shoulders.
   Better than tango,
   better than the waltz,
   better than the foxtrot--
   hips gyrating so fluidly
   MJ would've been jealous,
   a movement categorized only as
   sweet.

   Forget the outfield acrobatics:
   limbs swimming through stagnant
   Kingdome air brought to life only
   when the ball
   disappeared from view
   and reappeared in your glove.

   One motion your definition,
   fluidity focused
   into your shoulders
   and your hips,
   you rotated
   with black hole
   at your center,
   pure energy when your bat
   met the ball.

   That swing was confirmation
   to a kid in the South End
   that baseball was his, too,
   because baseball was you,
   ball obeying
   your black hole,
   your dark skin.

   So dance, Jr.
   Let hips and shoulders
   share one last twirl
   at home plate,
   one last exhibition
   so sweet I'll have to say:

   Goodbye, baseball.