Sweet Caroline

Never thought you’d sing

her name.

A girl you never knew. Swaying

with a stadium of strangers.

In between innings. Its words.

Touching all the bases

Inside your head. No place better.

On a Sunday afternoon.

The breeze blowing out to right.

The harbor’s memories. The line

on Boylston street. Blue and yellow.

Two stripes for Boston’s strong

survivors. The dead who never

finished. Their Fenway song.

The wave suggests the girl

on the mound before the game

throwing out her pitch

was the first Caroline.

Neil Diamond had in mind

when he sang of you

and me. A stadium

of strangers. Our history

together. In the bleachers.

In the days of benches.

No seats. Having the best

chance in the world. To have

our shoulders meet.

Arms then. And then

our hands. Reaching out.

No matter how sentimental

this still sounds. Isn’t that

what our love is for?

Naming the closing space.

Cheering the disappearing

ball. Over everything. Deep

into Landsdowne Street.

Behind the wall. Its logo

of little Jimmy and his fund.

If you lived here you’d know

who he was, too. And reach

as far as you could into your

pockets, your purse. For bills.

For coins. For all your good

wishes. Prayers. For the children

living on their drips. For the research

doing its work in all those labs

and hospitals. MGH and Deaconess.

New England Baptist. Beth Israel

and Peter Bent.

This city’s known for. Even when

their signs have changed.

In these times. In the late innings.

When I want to give my name

to you. Write it down somewhere

you won’t forget.

Gary Margolis

Cornwall