He chased a ghost
to the crack of our whip.
Our simple plan:
the ghost would vaporize
through his fingers
before delighted eyes
and excited sighs.
The stupid man!
He couldn’t understand
the plan.
He caught the ghost
we loved the most.
His prize:
the stings of our whip.
Away he ran.

(for Roger Maris)

Originally published in “SUM poems” at the 1979 Great Falls Poetry Festival