“Don’t-let-it-come-to-me,
don’t-let-it-come-to-me,
don’t-let-it-come-to-me.
PLEASE, God!
Don’t-let-it-come to ME!”
He stood, bewildered
and in dread,
some unidentifiable where
in that vast space
they called
“the outfield.”
Not by choice.
Where was the comfort-security
of the Library
and books?
But this was P.E.
and baseball
was no choice.
The sun was hot
and birds sang, “away…”
“Don’t-let-it-come-to-me,
don’t-let-it-come to meee…”
The eternal inning
was eventually over
and he could finally
leave. Gratefully,
the ball never came.