We, the Blue Jays, are playing the Buzzards,
having already lost to the Orioles,
Eagles, Cardinals, Hawks, and even
the Sparrows. Bobby Browe is on the mound,
that predacious lefty sidearm pitcher
with strabismus, and a penchant for wild pitches.
His evil eye. His evil windup. The devil’s
delivery. I step flutteringly up to the plate,
chicken shit, caviling dove, hummingbird
hovering in the batter’s box, tremulous, tiny.
My beaked cap. My pigeon toes. The rictus
of his grin. The trajectory of his spit. And then–
the windup, the pitch, the blind swing–more like
a swat. Two finches chasing a crow over the treetops.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME