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.
