yankees

Yankees, yankees, yankees

What masks to my life

Here from these men in pinstripes?

No day all sad

When they plan and win

No day all glad

When they lose

As if I live with ghosts

Who come to my table

Decide the color of my days

And should I reach out

To touch

And feel the hand

I come up short

Ghost alive

I pull back

Blind myself to flaws

Reach to markers

So the signature on wood

NY on any cloth I wear

Signs that free me

From the disasters

Trials of my days

Yankees, yankees, yankees

My father's hand

Turned on the radio

For this child of seven

Filled the air with ghosts

That danced for me

Still they dance

Even as he, my father

Begins the move

To ghostly state

Even as he becomes

Yankee, yankee, yankee

© 2000 Greg Moglia