Saturday morning with Lenny

we were listening to the baseball game on the car radio so there’s no talking and I already knew there’s no crying in baseball way before Tom Hanks said so the loud and running voices talked strikes and balls and raced the wind from the window where the metal frame was angry hot so don’t touch it stupid its August and little did we know fifty years later his wife would die the same day and he would be gone ten years before that and there was no crying then either the last time I talked to him he was yelling curses like fast pitches and flinging rage like curve balls all strikes and the hot wind of regret

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Categorized as poetry
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By sherisherman

An MFA writing graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts, Sheri has worked as a copywriter and freelance journalist. Having lived in every region of the United States, she grew up in Virginia and now resides in San Diego and Vermont. Sheri graduated with a B.A. in English Literature from American University in Washington D.C.. Prior to beginning her MFA, she attended the summer Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Her poetry has been published in Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts and Poetry Miscellany, U-T Chattanooga. A critical essay was published in The Asheville Poetry Review as well as a literary paper in the Ljubljana University Journal in Slovenia. Her micro fiction piece, “Hospital Stay,” was published in On the Run. Her first full length book, questions, will be coming out in 2025 by Finishing Line Press. Sheri’s landscape photography and poetry feature the natural world and her interest in how time and space are experienced within our landscapes, our senses, and the human consciousness.

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