For information on our poetry please contact

YellowHook Poets Official Email

Anthony Vigorito is the Official BrooklynONE: Yellowhook Poet laureate.  

The Rotary Dial                        Andrew Greissman

A rotary dial never seen these days.

Now he just sits upstairs.

No one has patience for him anymore, they can all just push buttons to make their calls.

But sitting upstairs he has plenty of time to remember the soft hands that cradled him, the slim polished nails of movie stars.

He can hear the sultry voices that whispered into his ear at night.

But underneath this new moon he is tethered to the sinking ship of memory by his coiled black cord.

He never makes calls anymore, his wires twist in his plastic shell, ready to feel the familiar buzz of electricity, but they wait in vain.

Dust covers him, a blanket.

Slowly he falls asleep, becoming just another ethereal dream.

It Happened One Saturday Afternoon

Or My Little League Nightmare

 byTom Kane

Somewhere in my distant past, in a room I dread to face

A ball field, down on old Shore Road is where this all takes place

The score was three to two, it was the bottom of the last

We had runners on first and third, the die, it had been cast

Two teams, same division, were now playing for first place

The bad news was that I was the person occupying that third base

The noise from the bleachers was as loud as I’ve ever heard

I could barely hear my father and he was coaching third

The first pitch it was thrown, outside and kinda low

My father screamed “ya gotta take a lead, he makes contact you gotta go”

I nodded like I knew, exactly what he was trying to say

But with all the noise and excitement my mind just wandered away

“strike one” I heard the umpire scream, I didn’t even see the pitch

but I heard the crowd and someone yelled “wake up you sonofabitch”

so I got myself back in the swing, and I watched the pitcher good

I knew I had to take a lead and head straight for home if I could

The next pitch was low and in the dirt, but the catcher made the play

The batter held up his hands to me, as if he were trying to say

“don’t come any further” (because that would be absurd!)

so I stopped exactly where I stood, just about two feet offa third

well, I think I heard my father yell, and everyone else began to shout

but the only words that I could understand were the umpires “you are OUT”

so there I stood as gloves and caps went flying in the air

the other team was cheering loud, my team was in despair

its like it happened yesterday, I felt like such a nerd

a day that lives in infamy, the day I got picked off third

well it was a quiet ride back home that night, and a quiet dinner ,too

and I swore I’d never play again, that much I knew was true

but my dad said just one thing to me as he chugged down his last beer

he said, “son, don’t worry ‘bout today, we’ll get them bums next year.”