Having planted seed – peaches,
plums, foul weeds, sunflowers of wilted petals,
along the trails with origins at home plate,
I slept on first base for eighteen years and more nights,
the hair on the skin of my arms oiled into compliance.
Outplayed but never truly out, I’d swing as balls took shape
in curves of Cracker Jacks and cherry Jello, always at arm’s length.
Double sessions at bat on Fridays. Double plays in pews on Sundays.
I’d field pop-ups, players in pinstripes, and various positions in the starting
line-up but always stop short of third base. Waiting, waiting,
waiting for that perfect pitch. To catch a run down the freeway,
gloves off, leather cleats stitched, fireworks in the bleachers, the wings
of the bats in my Gucci purse, fake – of course, spread wide / widespread.
I’d run,
fingers bare, briefs, bras, and underwear
aloft on laundry lines and shadows lit of candlelight,
then round third base.
finally, ready, to slide into home,
a standard three bedroom with no space to grow
minutes before curfew and seconds before the stadium lights
turned off for the night. Tomorrow’s game,
I’d anticipate.