Home plate just lies there flat,
Looking innocent and disinterested
As the parade of hitters come with hope and dreams
In their hearts and souls.
They come and go, come and go, some more quickly
Than others or more tensely or more eagerly.
Home plate lies there, taking abuse
From dirt kicked on it to bats tapping it nervously
To spikes and sweeping hands attacking it
Without complaining, but with quiet dignity,
Conscious of its place in the scheme of things,
Its strength of shape, unlike the common repetition
Of its staid fraternity brothers, the bases.
Home plate is the beginning and the end.