If I may be so presumptuous, I’d like to stick in my own little baseball poem here…

Four-finger fast
on its way home

spin stitch-catch breeze
half-second

ash-thwacked and
heart-walloped
in a parabolic function, going,

a playful sunlit arc -

gone.

The smell of oil, grass,

the broken-hearted pinstripes,

the pant

of breath;

the crowd cheers.