It rushes and cleaves the skyscraper sky,
rotates, rolls, spins over and over,
white, bright, and neatly stitched.
The signature spin, it’s meant for you only.
The other fifty thousand fans are
eliminated from this preordained lottery.
The five score souls in your section don’t matter either.
Your name is stitched in destiny as the baseball
threads and slices its way thru the ponderous August night.
You stare along the stadium’s top ring.
You realize immediately, this one has a chance.
This one is yours.

The sphere spirals downward.
Arms, hands flap, wave rudely,
reach out to invade your space.
Such futility: to tamper with the Fates.
You know when it’s meant for you.
The ball coils, grows bigger,
finds your hand and screws itself into your palm.
It stings into your smile.