Pitching pennies and then nickels
and finally quarters;
it was the big leagues.
And like the majors,
it is all about form
like a Cy Young winner
you have to be one with your body
as you aim for that line,
the swing of the wrist
“it’s all in the wrist baby”
would get the coin inside that line
engraved upon a concrete sidewalk...
As the coin floated like a feather
through the air and land inside that line;
it was one of the most beautiful sights
of my childhood, the coin would come
to rest, nestled like an infant in a crib.
A liner is what we called it and usually
this is what it would take
to win those scattered coins
tossed from us underprivileged souls.
We would stand outside on the corner
of Loomis & Taylor and aim for the heavens.
Big payoff, at least 3 to 4 dollars
that was big money in those days.
To go home with a pocket full of change
the jingle was as sweet as jolly ranchers
but better because it brought the
winner hope that things
were turning for the best.
As for the losers, we would go home
feeling the same as we did
when we started our game
of pitching our few and only coins.
Hunger still resided deep inside our bellies,
and empty pockets teased us
because we all knew
a hell of a lot of poverty
was waiting for us at home...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem