My family packed my bags and converted this city boy into country boy.
A fruity backyard ball park welcomed me.
I discovered a small patch-quilt blanket scarred with fallen apples under foot.
They sported various shades of brown.
I highjacked a broomstick bat from mom’s closet
and devised my technique to develop all-star baseball excellence.
Morning, noon, and night, I hit those apples,
from topsides to bottom edges, hit righty and lefty
line drives, pop ups, tree-top blasts, and azalea-level liners.
My making of an all-star player seamlessly progressed.
On game day, I pranced to home plate for my first PAL at bat.
I grabbed a wooden club and lined a rocket toward right field.
Suddenly it changed course and bounded into splintered stands.
Surprise, the second pitch from a human hand choking a cowhide baseball
buzzed past me like a Lamborghini.
Rotten apples were not present on the PAL field.
My birch bat proved overmatched and it only swatted air.
Reality struck and shattered my all-star dream.
Oh well, some of those bitter apples were yummy!
THE POETRY OF THE GAME