(with apologies to Mark Strand)
Box scores drip from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating baseball.
My mother does not believe how I spend my time.
Her eyes are skeptical
and she clicks her tongue at me.
The games are done,
the dice still warm from rolling.
The players are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their tongues wag,
their long arms shine with sweat.
My poor mother begins to stamp her feet and sizzle.
She does not understand.
When I wear my cleats in the house,
I swing from the heels –
banging balls out of the park.
I frolic beneath where fireworks spark.