Soto

Imagine a Samoan, like an NFL linebacker.

Not quite that tall, but like,

three-hundred-plus-pound-round-balloon big.

Imagine four thick rich basted brown turkey legs

for arms and thighs stuck out of his t-shirt and shorts.

His bouncing belly flap drags below the hem,

but he never self-consciously tugs the tee down.

Then you notice his insouciant smile and bright eyes,

proportioned like three holes in a bowling ball.

Technically he’s young, but you don’t consider his age –

a trait dwarfed by the master status of his

size, dark skin, and good nature – in that order.

He's not a Samoan, though.

He’s a Puerto Rican.

And he likes to cook.

And he loves his wife.

And his name is Soto.

Soto lumbers up to home plate lazily swinging

the bat like Fred Astaire with his cane.

He rocks the slugger up to sit on his shoulder,

the grip and the knob lost in his hands.

Soto shows he’s ready by just nodding twice,

but nothing else moves towards the pitcher.

Except his slow-motion head and dark eyes,

still not a twitch as the first ball flies by.

The second is the same

and the pitcher looks smug.

The third was the same

if you didn't look close.

But the bat’s on the ground?

And the ball’s in the air?

Landing far onto another field’s diamond,

it empties loaded bases and puts Soto on third.

The same Soto did all three times at bat,

over and again before the end of the game.

And afterwards Soto spoke of cooking Chicken Alfredo

as he gathered his wife and mopped off his brow.

Smiling and placidly saying, “Goodbye,”

Soto and his wife lumbered away.

And we thankfully smiled back at Soto –

our lip-smacking ball-cracking triple-sized guy.

        ~Volpini Amentum Arete Anemone