Snug spring dusk. Players hustle greenly
across warmed grass, balls plashing infield,
confetti falling, false plum blossoms.
Easy out in plain outfield, long armed
lob. Bang of whisked bat. Runner heels bag,
rests at two, fair, perfect diamond view.
Call strike three. Up from his robot squat,
knob catcher under rule huge empire
leans away and lanky batter sulks.
Twisting bat tulip pitcher, swollen
cheeks sun flowered, peers down math model,
algorithmically base template.
Reality catcher’s secret sign,
two and two make three in the slanted
sunbeam most lumbered cat in ball world.
Drops for short nap in dugout dark brew:
shadows, spat seeds, bubblegum, oiled gloves,
olive green browns, seasonal farm tans.
In the stands, bums, basic blue collars,
salt peanuts and choice beers, high above
button down box seats where line the fouls.
Blowy the crowd sings, “Euripides!,”
rising in unison how still rushed
crouched outfielder backing to close fence.
Coiled for spiraling ball with odd red
markings. Where do you want to begin,
at the front of the pitch, or the end?
Related Posts:
The Coming of the Toads 