by Earl J. Wilcox
At 83, icon of icons,
there you stand, Yogi,
your shadow smaller
and smaller
each time we see you.
Your clear-eyed twinkle
fills old Yankee Stadium
your presence,
your smile,
your catcher’s squat stance.
O, Yogi, essence of our poets,
your word horde---
tho not deep,
is distinct, your voice unique,
rhythms just right.
We want one more line, Yogi.
We promise not to mangle
this one,
as we have done
over the years.
Your coy smile beguiles,
holds us fast. Laureate
to the end, speaking
on the occasion, echoing
yourself, I’m Sorry to See it Over.
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he has contributed 40 poems to the New Verse News.
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