As a kid, you were told by parents and coaches
to follow the rules, stay within the lines,
run consecutively to first, second, and then third,
be alert to catch what life throws at you.
But there is no crying in baseball or life;
you must accept the verities of the game.
But what if you wanted to run when you liked,
frolic happily from third to second to first,
dance out of boredom in the outfield,
come up to the plate when it’s not your turn,
thus violating the printed lineup
of a most ordered, regimented life?
What if you wanted to play more than
nine innings, with the score untied?
What if you wanted to play in the rain,
or not play at all because you didn’t feel like it?
Then what would the umpire and all
the authoritarian arbiters we live by
say then?
THE POETRY OF THE GAME