Born a sonnet
perhaps a villanelle,
I shall not become a victim
of forms I have not formed on my own.
I much prefer the diamond,
of angles and unrhymed pitches.
Strike 1!
Foul ball!
Each player, an ode, a beat
dressed in rubber
soles, tucked pinstripes, and cleats.
Run! Going. Going. Gone!
Take me out,
of formal function. Designate
a hitter for emphasis.
Swing! Check! Ball 4!
Stretch in innings of rest.
Pause for peanuts and Cracker Jacks.
Embrace Phanatics dressed in
artificial turf.
The stadium, a poem of line
breaks and broken rules –
open for all.